Skip to main content

Full text of "St. Nicholas"

See other formats

From  the  collection  of  the 


"^    z    n 

0  Prejinger 
^    dUibrary 

b      t   ^    X.     P      . 

San  Francisco.  California 


-  '  ^3'/.^ 


.      L !     " 

—      -    - 


.    .; 


_,      ;,SS. 



Illustrated      Magazine 

For  Young  Folks 



Part  I.,  November,  1889,  to  April,  1890. 



Copyright,  1890,  by  The  Century  Co. 

The  De  Vinne  Press. 



PART    I. 

Six  Months  —  November,    1889,  to  April,    1890. 


■  f 

>  Tudor  Jetiks 473 


Agassiz  Association,  The Harlan  H.  BallarJ 94 

Ann  Lizy's  Patchwork Mary  E.  Wllkins 44 

Armadillo  Hunt,  An.     (Illustrated  by  Meredith  Nugent) Walter  B.  Barrows 353 

Autumn  Revel,  An.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  O.  Beck) Ida  Warii,-r  Van  der  Voort.  .  176 

Ballad  of  King  Henry  of  Castile,  The.    Poem.     (Illustrated  by  Childe  ( 


Bertha's  D£but.     (Illustrated  by  Rose  Mueller  Sprague) £lia  IF.  Peattic 217 

Blue-eyed  Mary.    Verse Mary  E.  Wilkins 21 

"  Bluenose  "  Vendetta,  A.     (Illustrated  by  I.  R.  Wiles) Charles  G.  D.  Roberts    332 

Boyhood  of  Thackeray,  The.     (Illustrated) Anne  Thackeray  Rilehie.  .    .  99 

Boys  and  Girls  of  China,  The.     (Illustrated)  Van  Phoii  Lee 362 

Brownies  in  the  Studio,  The.     Verse.     (Illustrated  by  the  .Author) Painter  Cox 271 

Buffalo-hunting.     (Illustrated  by  Frederic  Remington  and  C.  T.  Hill)    ....  Theodore  Roosevelt 136 

Bunny  Stories,  The.     (Illustrated  by  Culmer  Barnes) John  H.  Je^vett 530 

By-and-by.     Verse.     (Illustrated  and  engrossed  by  R.  B.  Birch) Eva  L.  Ogden.    153 

Charles.     (Illustrated  by  W.  A.  Rogers) Laura  E.  Richards 270 

Child  and  the  Pyramid,  The.     (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill) Julian  Hawthorne 14 

Chinese  Giant,  The.     (Illustrated  by  E.  B.  Bensell)  Ruth  Dana  Draper 484 

Chopsticks,  How  to  Use  a  Pair  of.     (Illustrated  from  photographs) Eliza  Ruhamah  Scidmorc .  .  .  535 

Christmas  Day',  For.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  G.  W.  Edwards) //.  Butlerworth 186 

Christ.mas  Letter,  A.     Poem Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson ....  113 

Christmas  o.n  the  "  Polly."     Verse.     (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill) Grace  F.  Coolidge 246 

Christmas,  The  Month  Before Mary  V.  Worstell 89 

Clever  Peter  and  the  Ogress.     Verse.     (Illustrated  and  engrossed  by  \ 

the  Author) .' \  ^""""-'"^  ^J* 358 

Constant  Reader,  A.     Picture,  drawn  by  Mary  Hallock  Foote 86 

Coursing  with  Greyhounds  in  Southern  California.    (Illustrated  by 

R.  B.  Birch) 

Cricket,  The.     Poem Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson   ...  57 

Crowded  Out  o'  Crofield.     (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill)    William  O.  Stoddard.  . .  .24S,  340, 

436,  510 

Crowfoot,  Old  Chief.     (Illustrated  by  A.  J.  Goodman,  from  a  photograph)  .Julian  Ralph 328 

Crows'  Military  Drill,  The.     ( Illustrated  by  H.  Sandham) Agnes  p'raser  Sandham 377 

CusTis,  George  and  Nellie.     (Illustrated) Margaret  J.  Preston 395 

Daisy's  Calendar Daisy  F.  Barry    ......    .  .  185 

Daniel  Boone  and  the  Indian.     Pictures.    ,    534 

Design  for  Decoration  of  a  Window.    Picture,  drawn  by  Isabel  McDougal 255 

Dogs,  Some  Asiatic Thomas  Stevens .  314 

Dorothy  Dot's  Thanksgiving  Party.     (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill) Ada  M.  Trotter 22 

Dreams.     Poem 5'.  Walter  Norris 151 

Drop-kick,  The.     (Illustrated  by  I.  R.  Wiles) W.  T.  Bull 237 

Ducking  of  Goody  Grill,  The.     (Illustrated  by  G.  W.  Edwards) Alice  Maude  Ewell 407 

Elephants,  The  King  of  the.     (Illustrated  by  Meredith  Nugent) C.  F.  Holder 527 

Elf  Song.     Poem Samuel  Minturn  Peck 327 

Enchanted  Mesa,  The.     (Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Metcalf,  H.  M.  Eaton,  and  \ 

from  a  photograph) \  ^^""-'"  ^-  ^'""'"" -°7 

"  Euchred  !  "     Picture,  drawn  by  J.  G.  Francis 519 

Every-day  Bacteria Prof.  F.  D.  Chester 350 

February.     Poem.    (Illustrated  and  engrossed  by  the  Author) Katharine  Pyle 337 

\  C.  F.  Holder 3 



Fifteen  Minutes  with  a  Cyclone.    (Illustrated  by  T.  Moran  and  W.  Taber) .  j)/.  Louise  Ford 429 

Fools'  Waltz,  The.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) Helen  Tliayer  Hukheson.  . .  .  226 

For  Christmas  Day.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  G.  W.  Edwards) H.  Butlenmrlh 186 

Friends  or  Foes  ?     A  Play Elbridge  S.  Brooks 419 

From  Thebes.     Picture,  drawn  by  E.  A.  Cleveland  Coxe 454 

George  and  Nellie  Custis.     (Illustrated) Margaret  J.  Preston 395 

Greedy.    Verse Sydney  Dnyre 357 

Hai'PY  Charity  Children.     Picture,  drawn  by  Rose  Mueller  Sprague 152 

Helen  Th.\yer  Hutcheson.     (Illustrated  from  a  photograph) 231 

Horse,  A  Story  of  a.     (Illustrated  by  Frederic  Remington) Capt.  C.  A.  Curtis 27 

How  Bessie  Wrote  a  Letter Edith  G.  Seran 319 

How  the  Emperor  Goes.     Verse.     (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill) M.  Helen  Lovett 173 

How  to  Use  a  Pair  of  Chopsticks.     (Illustrated  from  photographs) Eliza  Ruhamah  SciJinore  . .  535 

Hutcheson,  Helen  Thayer.     (Illustrated  from  a  photograph) 231 

Iceberg,  The  Story  of  the.  Poem.    (Illustrated  by  T.  Moran) Harriet  Prescott  Sfofford 129 

If  the  Babes  Were  the  Bards.    Verse.    (Illustrated  by  .Mbertine  Randall  > 

Wheelan) \  ^'"'"'"^  '^''"''''" '83 

"  I  'LI.  Wait  for  You.    Come  on  !  "    Picture,  drawn  by  Mary  Hallock  Foote 161 

Imperious  Yawn,  The.     Verse Henry  Moore 381 

Intercollegiate  Foot-ball  in  America.     (Illustrated   by  I.  R.  Wiles,  \ 

H.  A.  Ogden,  and  from  photographs) \^n  alter  Camp. . .  36,  166,  24 1,  321 

In  the  Tenement.     Verse.     (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill) Malcolm  Douglas 221 

Jack's  Cure.     (Illustrated  by  W.  A.  Rogers) Susan  Curtis  RedfielJ 382 

January.     Poem.     (Illustrated  and  engrossed  by  the  Author) Katharine  Pyle 224 

Jingle,  A.     (Illustrated  by  Alberline  Randall  Wheelan) Francis  Randall 308 

Jingles 258,  308,  521 

Jokers  of  the  Menagerie.     (Illustrated  by  Meredith  Nugent) John  Russell  Coryell 71 

King  Henry  of  Castile,  The  Ballad  of.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  Childe  > 

Hassam)  \  ^ "'^''- ■^"'''' 473 

King  in  Egypt,  A.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson  . .  .  230 

King  of  the  Elephants,  The.     (Illustrated  by  Meredith  Nugent) C.  F.  Holder 527 

Kittie's  Best  Friend.     (Illustrated) M.  Helen  Lozett 77 

Lady  Jane.     (Illustrated  by  A.  C.  Redwood) Mrs.  C.  V.  Jamison 492 

Last  Cricket,  The.     Poem Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson  ...  113 

Launching  of  a  War-ship,  The.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Julian  O.  Davidson 338 

Little  Alvilda.     (Illustrated  by  Rose  Mueller  Sprague) Hjalmar  //.  Boyesen 130 

Little  Button  wood  Man,  The.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Helen  P.  Strong 267 

Little  Dutchess,  The.  Verse.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) Laura  E.  Richards 326 

Little  Gnome,  The.     Verse.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) iMura  E.  Richards 87 

March.     Poem.     (Illustrated  and  engrossed  by  the  Author) Katharine  Pyle 405 

Marjorie  and  her  P.vpa.    (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch  after  designs  by  the  >   , 

^^jj^^^.                                ^                       •'                                                             S           ■            '        Fletcher. ...  522 

May  Bartlett's  Stepmother.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) JVora  Perry 144,  198,  301 

Mistaken  Scientist,  The.     Pictures,  drawn  by  E.  W.  Kemble 353 

Month  Before  Christmas,  The Mary  V.  Worstcll 89 

Morning  Melody,  A.     Poem Mary  Bradley 336 

Mother  Nature's  B.\bes  in  the  Wood E.  M.  Harding 450 

New-fashioned  Christmas,  A.    Verse.    (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill)   Julie  M.  Lippmann 265 

Nor.\Y  and  the  Ark Harry  Stillwell  Edwards  .  .  .  433 

Off  for  Slumberland.     Poem Caroline  Erans 418 

Old  Chief  Crowfoot.     (Illustrated  by  A.  J.  Goodman,  from  a  photograph ).y?//!<7»  Ralph 328 

Old  Doll,  An.     (Illustrated) Margaret  IV.  Bisland 426 

On  a  Mountain  Trail.     (Illustrated  by  W.  Taber) Harry  Perry  Robinson 371 

Osman  Pasha  at  Bucharest.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) HeUn  Thayer  Hutcheson .  228 

Ostrich-ranch  in  the  United  St.^tes,  An.     (Illustrated  by  W.  Taber,/    ,  ^.  ,,        „. 

..           ,    ,         ,    .                                                                                              .■  Anna  Etchberg  King.    ....  261 

and  from  photgraphs) \  "         ° 

OVENBIRD,  The.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Ernest  E.  Thompson 520 

Over  the  Wall.     Poem Anna  H.  Branch 86 

Packet  of  Letters,  A.     Verse.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author^ Oliver  Herford 502 

/  Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen l6 



PiCMC  ON  THE  Stairs,  A.     (Illustrated  by  Mary  Hallock  Foote) 258 

Pictures 86,  152,  161,  255,  275,  353,  447,  454,  504,  519,  534 

Pilot-boat  "Torching"  by  Night.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Julian  O.  Davidson 256 

Poem  Postponed,  A.     Jingle ^ IlcUn  C.  H'aldin 521 

Poet  of  the  Hempstead  Centennial,  The.    (IlJ^rated  by  Harper  Pen- 

Prairie  Prelude,  A.     Poem Ka/c  M.  Clcary 537 

Precious  Tool-chest,  A Erncsl  Ingdrsoll ...     505 

Prince  and  the  Brewer's  Son,  The.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) Elizabeth  Batch 50 

Professor  and  the  Patagonian  Giant,  The.    (Illustrated  by  E.  B.  Bensell).  Tudor  Jenks 161 

Pueblo  Rabbit-hunt,  A.     (Illustrated  by  W.  Taber  and  F.  S.  Dellenbaugh).  C/Mr/cj /".  Lumntis 9 

Quite  a  Singer.    Verse.    (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) Malcolm  Douglas 376 

Rabbit-hunt,  A  Pueblo.     (Illustrated  by  W".  Taber  and  F.  S.  Dellenbaugh) ,  CharU-s  F.  Lummis 9 

Race  for  Life,  A.     (Illustrated  by  W.  A.  Rogers) .Emma  IV.  Demeiitt 68 

Race  with  .\  Wooden  Shoe,  A.     (Illustrated  by  C.  T.  Hill) Frederick  E.  Partington  ....  80 

Routine  of  the  Republic,  The Edmund  Alton 233 

Samoa,  The  Story  of  the  Great  Storm  at.  (Illustrated  by  J.  O.  David-  > 

son,  G.  W.  Edwards,  and  from  photographs) \    '          '                ° ^ 

Schoolmates.     Poem Alice  Maude  Ewell 331 

Scientific  Experiment,  A . . . .   Sophie  Swett 58 

Screech-owl,  The.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Ernest  E.  Thompson 432 

Seven  Little  Indian  Stars.     Poem Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt 406 

Shadow-bird  and  his  Shadow.     Poem Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt 335 

Sir  Rat.     Verse.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Oliver  Ilerford 65 

Six  Years  in  the  Wilds  of  Central  Africa.     (Illustrated  by  E.  W.  > 

Kemble,  E.  J.  Glave,  W.  Taber,  and  Otto  Bacher) \^E.  J.  Glave 459 

Some  Asiatic  Dogs , Thomas  Stevens 314 

Song  of  the  Snowflakes.     Poem John  P'ance  Cheney 309 

.Starfish,  A.     Verse Caroline  Evans 509 

Story  of  a  Horse,  A.     (Illustrated  by  Frederic  Remington)   Capt.  C.  A.  Curtis 27 

Story  of  the  Great  Storm  at  Samoa,  The.    (Illustrated  by  J.  O.  David-  \ 

son,  G.  W.  Edwards,  and  from  photographs) \  •^'''"'  ^'  ^"""'"ff 283 

Story  of  the  Iceberg,  The.    Poem.      (Illustrated  by  T.  Moran) Harriet  Prescott  Spofford .  . .  .  129 

Thackeray,  The  Boyhood  of.     (Illustrated)' Anne  Thackeray  Ritchie. . .  99 

"  The  Idea  of  Calling  This  Spring  !  "    Picture,  drawn  by  W.  Taber  ....    504 

"Thereby  Hangs  a  Tail."     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Harper  Pennington 448 

"There  once  w.«  a  Man  with  a  Sneeze."    Jingle.     (Illustrated  by  R.  \ 

B.  Birch) \ 258 

Through  the  Back  Ages.     First  Paper Teresa  C.  Crofton 490 

To-day  in  a  Garden.     Poem.     (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson. . . .  225 

Toddling  Island.    Poem Edith  M.  Thomas  352 

Touch  of  Nature,  A.     Verse Anna  F.  Burnham 363 

Tracked  by  a  Panther.    (Illustrated  by  W.  Taber) Charles  C.  D.  Roberts 213 

Two  Ways  of  Having  a  Good  Time Frances  E.  Willard 348 

Valentine  for  Allis,  A.     Poem Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson  . . .  313 

Visit  to  John's  Camp,  A.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) A/ary  Hallock  Foote 479 

Wf.ll-filled  Chimney,  A.     (Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Davies)   Mabel  Loomis  Todd 222 

White  and  the  Red,  The.    (Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch) Alice  Maude  Eiocll 114 

Why  Corn  Pops.     (Illustrated  by  the  Author) Harry  A.  Doty 74 

Winter  Apples.     Poem - .Hattie  IVhilney 76 

Winter  Costumes.     (Illustrated  by  the  Designer)  Rose  Mueller  Sprague 446 

••r                      ^               „                   .       ,,.,              ,,  S  Mark  Twain  and  } 

Wonderful  Pair  of  Slippers,  A.    (Illustrated) i  fi  '   r    r   r    /  (       3°9 

Yule-log's  Song,  The.    Poem.    (Illustrated  by  G.  W.  Edwards) Harriet  Prescott  Spofford.    . .    195 


"  In  Full  Cry,"  by  R.  B.  Birch,  facing  Title-page  of  Volume — "  William  Makepeace  Thackeray,"  from  a  bust 
by  J.  Devile,  page  98 — "  Ready  for  a  New  Year,"  by  F.  French,  page  194  —  "The  Adler  Plunging  Toward  the 



Reef,"  by  J.  O.  Davidson,  page  2S2  — "  On  a  Mountain  Trail,"  by  W.  Taber,  page  370  — "  A  Night  on  the  Congo," 
by  E.  W.  Kemble,  page  45S. 

Plays  and  Music. 

For  Christmas  Day.     (Illustrated) H.  Butterworlh 186 

Friends  or  Foes  ? Elbridge  S.  Brooks 4:9 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit.     (Illustrated.) 

Introduction  —  Jack's  Italian  Cousin  —  The  Knowing  Woodpecker  —  The  Frigate-bird  —  That  Bicycle  Path  — 
Red  Schoolhouse  Queries  —  A  Veteran  Rose-bush  —  A  Nebraska  Show  (illustrated),  84;  Introduction  —  The 
Old  Year  and  the  New — Stones  for  Fuel  —  A  City  Wanted?  —  Those  Big  Pumpkins — A  Mississippi  Doll  — 
The  Hildesheim  Rose-bush —  He  Caught  a  Tartar  —  Looking  Back  ^  Excited  Brownies  (picture),  274  ;  Intro- 
duction—  The  Carpenter  Bee  — Is  the  Panther  Cowardly?  —  Why  Not  Try  ? —  Rude  Courtesy  —  A  Roman 
Feast —  How  a  Boy  was  Taught  to  Turn  Out  his  Toes^  Blooming, in  Latin  —  A  Sprig  that  Tied  Itself  Into 
a  Knot  (illustrated),  360;   Introduction  —  The  Frigate-bird  —  A  City  Wanted,  538. 

The  Letter-box.     (Illustrated) 92,  188,  276,  364,  452,  540 

The  Riddle-box.     (Illustrated) 95,  191,  279,  367,  455,  543 

Editorial  Notes 92,  188,  364 


IN     FULL     CRY. 


Vol.  XVII. 

NOVEMBER,    1889. 

No.   I. 



Bv  C.  F.  Holder. 


;  I  write,  a  hound, 
faithful  and  true,  is 
looking  up  into  my 
face,  her  long  slen- 
der muzzle  resting 
on  m)'  arm,  her 
eyes  beaming  with 
intelligence.  Her 
name  is  "  Mouse," 
and  she  is  a  gre\- 
hound  known  to 
many  readers  of 
St.  Nicholas  in 
the  San  Gabriel 
Valley,  in  South- 
ern California.  She 
is  blinking,  puffing  out  her  lips,  whining,  in 
fact,  laughing  and  talking  after  her  fashion ; 
and  probably  this  is  what  she  is  trying  to  say  : 
"  I  am  a  greyhound.  I  can  outrun  any  hare  in 
Pasadena,  and  when  I  was  younger  and  not  so 
heavy  I  could  jiuiip  up  behind  my  master  on 
the  horse  when  the  grass  and  flowers  were  tall, 
and  so  look  around  for  a  jack-rabbit." 

Mouse  does  not  mention  that  the  horse  de- 
cidedly objected  to  her  sharp  claws,  sometimes 
bucking  to  throw  her  oft",  and  thus  has  often  made 

Copyright,  1889,  by  The  Centi.ry  Co. 


it  very  uncomfortable  for  her  master.  She  has 
just  taken  her  head  from  my  arm,  offended  per- 
haps at  this  breach  of  confidence,  so  I  must 
continue  the  storj'  without  further  comment 
from  her. 

Mouse  is  but  one  of  a  number  of  dogs  that 
constitute  the  pack  of  the  Valley  Hunt  Club  of 
Pasadena,  Southern  California.  Most  are  grey- 
hounds, but  there  are  a  few  of  the  fine  stag- 
hounds  that  the  famous  Landseer  loved  to  paint. 
Some  are  mouse-colored,  like  Mouse  herself; 
others  a  tawny  hue ;  others  again  mouse  and 
white.  And  in  the  field  together  they  present  a 
fine  appearance — long,  slender  forms,  delicate 
limbs,  powerful  muscles,  rat-like  tails,  deep  chests, 
[lointed  muzzles,  and  feet  like  springy  cushions. 
They  are  quaintly  described  in  the  old  lines : 

"  Headed  like  a  snake. 
Necked  like  a  drake, 
Backed  like  a  beam, 
Sided  like  a  bream. 
Tailed  like  a  rat. 
And  footed  like  a  cat." 

\\'hen  iireparing  for  an  outing,  Mouse  and 
Uinah  (the  latter  being  her  baby,  though  taller 
than  the  mother)  well  know  what  is  to  come. 
When   riding-crop,   gloves,   saddle,   and    bridle 

AH  rights  reserved. 



appear,  they  become  intensely  excited,  and  in-    colored,  and  one  is  jet-black.     Each  a  buncli  of 
sist  upon  holding  my  gloves  or  the  crop,  and,    springs  and  nerves,  a  noble  group  they  make : 

when  I  mount,  leap  up  against  the  horse  with 
every  expression  of  delight.  As  we  ride  out  of 
the  orange  grove,  it  is  a  wild  and  delicious 
morning,  such  as  one  can  find,  in  February, 
only  in  Southern  California.  Hills,  fields,  and 
meadows  are  green,  roses  are  on  every  side,  or- 

Dinah,  Silk,  Rayraon,  Mouse,  Fleet,  Eclipse,  and 
many  more. 

The  hunt  is  made  up  of  nearly  one  hundred 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  lovers  of  riding  and  dogs. 
Thirty  or  more  are  on  horseback,  with  invited 
guests  from  all  over  the  county,  and  the  remain- 

anges  ghsten  on  their  dark-green  trees,  the  air    der  in  coaches  and  carriages,  who  follow  the 

is  rich  with  tloral  odors  and  filled  with  the  song 
of  birds.  Snow  is  gleaming  on  the  big  peaks 
of  the  Sierra  Madres:  it  is  winter  there,  over 
the  tops  of  the  orange  trees,  but  summer  down 
here  in  the  valley.  No  wonder  the  dogs  are 
delighted  and  the  horses  need  the  curb.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen  appear,  coming  out  of  side  streets 
and  bound  for  the  "meet."  followed  by  coaches 
with  merry  riders,  all  headed  for  the  mesa  at 
the  foot  of  the  Sierra  Madre  range.  Now  the 
silvery  notes  of  a  horn  are  borne  melodiously 
on  the  wind,  and  out  from  the  shadow  of  the 
eucalyptus  grove  comes  the  pack  of  hounds 
from  San  Marino,  one  of  the  beautiful  homes 
in  the  San  Gabriel ;  a  few  moments  later  the 

**  THE    HOIND    COtXD   JUMP    I'PON    THE    HORSE,   .\ND    SO    LOOK 

hunt  is  together  on  a  lofty  hill  overlooking  the 
surrounding  countn,-.  Young  folks  are  patting 
and  admiring  the  dogs ;  and  noble  fellows  these 
dogs  are.  .-Vmong  them  are  some  great  tawny 
leonine  creatures,  brought  from  Australia,  where 
tliey  hunted  the  kangaroo;  others  are  mouse- 

hunt  in  this  way  and  at  noon  meet  the  riders 
at  breakfast  in  some  shaded  nook.     The  horn 
sounds  gleefully.     The  great,  high-pointed  Mex- 
ican saddles,  which  the  gentlemen  use,  are  looked 
after.     Horses  champ  their  musical  bits,  eager 
to  be  off,  and  finally,  at  the  word,  the  cavalcade 
winds  slowly  down  the  hill,  spreading  out  over 
the  mesa  —  a  gently  rising  tract,  the  slope  of 
the  mountains,  ]5lanted  with  grape,  orange,  and 
olive,  with  intervening  spaces  of  very  low  brush. 
Two  miles  or  less  away,  rise  the  Sierra  Madres 
like  a  huge  stone  wall,  with  peaks  from  four  thou- 
sand to  eleven  thousand  feet  high ;  and  along 
their  base  the  hunt  proceeds.    A  few  feet  in  ad- 
vance, mounted  on  a  fiery  bronco,  is  the  master 
of  the   hounds  with    his 
silver    horn.     The    dogs 
separate  and  move  slow- 
ly   ahead,    wading    now 
through  banks  of  golden 
poppies,  wild  heliotrope, 
and  brown-backed  violets. 
Greyhounds  do  not  hunt 
by  scent,    as    foxhounds 
do,  but  by  sight  alone; 
so,   every  now  and  then 
they  stop  to  look  about, 
all   the  while   keeping   a 
keen  eye  ahead. 

Suddenly  there  is  a 
shout,  and  horses  and 
dogs  are  away.  From 
under  the  very  nose  of 
Mouse  a  curious  appari- 

AROITND    FOR    A    JACK-RABBIT."        •  ■  a     c^ 

tion  spnngs  up — a  nutty 
object  of  grayish  tints.  It  is  the  jack-rabbit ! 
For  an  instant  he  stands  astonished,  wondering 
what  it  is  all  about,  then  dashes  away  like  a 
rocket  and  is  followed  by  the  field.  Nearly  all 
the  dogs  see  him :  while  those  that  do  not,  fol- 
low the  others.     The  horses  seem  to  understand 


the  shout  and  in  a  moment  are  off  in  a  wild 
race  over  the  mesa,  beating  down  the  flowers 
and  throwing  clods  of  earth  behind  them. 

The  "Jack,"  true  to  his  instincts,  makes  for 
the  low  brush  in  a  washout.  He  seems  a  streak 
of  light  disappearing  and  reappearing  here  and 
there.  The  dogs  are  doing  their  best,  working 
like  machines.  Watch 
their  wonderful  running ! 
Even  at  the  terrific  pace, 
with  ditches,  and  holes 
dug  by  gophers,  badgers, 
or  owls  to  look  out  for, 
the  action  of  the  beauti- 
ful dogs  attracts  our  at- 
tention. They  sweep  on 
hke  the  wind — a  kaleido- 
scopic effect  of  grays  and 
yellows,  passing  and  re- 
passing. Now  Silk  leads, 
then  in  turn  the  blue  dog 
is  ahead.  See !  Mouse 
is  in  the  air.  Losing 
sight  of  the  game,  she 
leaps  bodily  three  feet 
upward  o\er  the  brush, 
looks  quickly  around, 
catches  sight  of  the  flee- 
ing form,  and  is  away 
again.  The  speed  is  mar- 
velous !      No   race-horse 

great  run.  Hunters  give  out ;  one  or  two  dogs 
are  fagged;  but  over  the  green  fields  and  down 
toward  the  city  goes  the  main  body  of  the  hunt. 
The  little  fellow  on  the  pony  has  become  dis- 
couraged. The  pony  is  breathing  hard  and  his 
brave  rider's  yellow  locks  have  evidently  been 
in  contact  with  the  pin-clover. 




•the  dog  inserts  its  long  nose  beneath   the   hare,  and   tosses   him   into  the   air." 

can  keep  up  with  a  thoroughbred  racing  grey- 
hound, yet  the  field  is  doing  bravely.  One  Kttle 
boy,  though  far  behind,  follows  pluckily,  his 
short-legged  pony  struggling  sturdily  through  a 
plowed  field. 

The  hare  has  dashed  across  the  washout  and 
up  a  large  vine)'ard,  around  and  down  a  well- 
known  road.  How  they  go  1  Four,  six,  ten 
horses  all  bunched,  and  running  like  the  wind — 
a  wild,  melodious  jangle  of  hoofs,  spurs,  and  bit- 
chains.  Up  go  the  dogs  suddenly.  "Jump!" 
cries  the  Master  of  the  Hounds  warningly, 
turning  in  his  saddle.  The  hare  has  stopped 
abrupdy  at  the  edge  of  a  dry  ditch  and  turned  at 
a  sharp  angle.  Some  of  the  dogs  go  over  and 
sweep  around  in  great  curves,  while  others  break 
off  on  both  sides  and  are  soon  following  the 
game  over  the  back  track.  A  noble  chase  it  is  1 
Everything  favors  the  hare,  and  he  is  making  a 

But  courage !  what  is  this  ?  A  shout  from 
below,  and  he  sees  the  Jack,  with  ears  flat, —  a 
signal  of  distress, —  coming  up  the  slope  ;  the 
dogs  have  turned  him  again.  Off  the  young  rider 
goes  over  the  field,  side  by  side  with  hare  and 
hounds.  Soon  a  big  mouse-colored  dog  darts 
ahead,  overtakes  the  hare,  and  kills  him  in- 
stantly. Often  the  dog  inserts  its  long  nose 
beneath  the  hare,  and  tosses  him  into  the  air.  A 
moment  later,  the  entire  field  is  about  the  catch, 
and  the  long  ears  and  diminutive  brush  of  this 
farmers'  pest  decorate  the  hat  of  the  first  lady  in 
at  the  finish. 

Panting  dogs  and  horses  and  flushed  riders  are 
grouped  about ;  owners  making  excuses  for  pet 
dogs,  and  all  agreeing  that  the  hare  was  a  most 
extraordinary  old  fellow,  wily  and  conceited. 
He  must  have  girdled  many  peach  and  cherry 
trees  in  his  time,  and  no  one  mourns  his  fate. 


Now  the  run  is  discussed,  and  its  good  points 
dilated  upon ;  favorite  horses  are  petted,  and 
young  men  svith  suspicious  grass  stains  on 
their  coats  and  trousers  are  ridiculed.  Now- 
one  may  see  a  thirsty  dog  drinking  from  a  can- 
teen which  one  of  the  huntsmen  has  unslung, 
while  other  dogs  await  their  turn  ;  others  again 
are  lying  on  the  cool  grass,  panting  like  steam- 
engines,  yet  very  proud  of  their  work.  Half  an 
hour  or  more  is  given  for  rest,  then  dogs,  horses, 
and  riders  are  ready  for  another  run,  and  per- 
haps two  miles  of  delightful  country  is  gone 
over  before  another  hare  is  seen.  This  time  he 
runs  for  the  mountains,  and  after  carrying  the 
hunt  a  mile  or  more  up  the  slojie,  dashes  into 
the  big  canon  and  is  away,  while  the  disap- 
pointed dogs  and  riders  join  the  coaches  and 
carriages  at  the  hunt  breakfast,  spread  on  the 
slope  among  the  wild  flowers;  and  here,  looking 
down  on  the  lovely  valley  and  the  Pacific  Ocean 
thirty  miles  away,  the  day's  sport  ends. 

Such  is  real  "  hare  and  hounds "  in  Southern 
California — an  insiiiriting  sport,  as  the  natural 
instincts  of  the  greyhounds  are  given  full  i)lay, 
and  the  hare  has  every  advantage,  and  can  only 
be  caught  if  faithfully  followed  by  riding  at  a 
pace  which,  for  speed  and  excitement,  is  never 
equaled,  I  venture  to  say,  in  the  Eastern  States. 

The  greyhound  is  becoming  a  popular-dog  in 
America,  and  coursing  clubs  are  being  formed 
throughout  the  country,  dogs  being  imported  at 
great  expense.  In  certain  regions  of  Califor- 
nia the  hare  exists  in  myriads,  and  the  ranchers 
keep  the  greyhounds  to  run  them  off",  so  it  is  nat- 
ural that  Californians  should  believe  that  they 
have  some  of  the  fastest  dogs  in  the  country. 
How  fast  can  they  run  ?  A  good  greyhound 
has  been  known  to  run  four  miles  in  twelve 
minutes.  "Silk"  has  caught  a  hare  within  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  of  the  start,  and  as  for 
"  Mouse,"  now  fat  and  heavy,  I  have  run  the 
fastest  horse  I  could  find  against  her,  and  she 
was  always  just  ahead,  looking  back  as  if  to 
say,  "  Why  don't  you  come  ?  "  The  pace  of 
the  dogs  is  illustrated  by  the  fact  that  two  of 
them  when  running  in  a  vineyard  came  into  col- 
lision; light  and  slender  as  the  animals  were, 
one  dog's  neck  was  broken  and  the  other  hound 
was  seriously  injured. 

Coursing  is  by  no  means  a  new  sport.      Not 

only  is  it  an  old  English  custom,  but  even  in 
the  ancient  carvings  of  Thebes  we  find  the 
greyhound.  Among  the  ancients,  chasing  the 
hare  with  these  dogs  was  considered  a  noble 
sport,  for  the  greyhound  has  an  aristocratic 
mien,  and  is  the  type  of  refinement  and  cul- 
ture among  dogs.  True  coursing  differs  ma- 
terially from  the  methods  of  the  hunt  described, 




and  often  degenerates  into  a  sport  carried  on 
simply  for  gain.  It  was  first  organized  as  a 
sport  by  Thomas,  Duke  of  Norfolk,  in  the  time 
of  Elizabeth,  and  the  old  rules  are  to  some  ex- 
tent followed  in  England  to-day.  In  these,  the 
various  efforts  of  the  dogs  in  turning  the  hare 
count,  and  numbers  of  dogs  contest,  one  with 
another,  to  a  finish.  In  America,  coursing  clubs 
rarely,  if  ever,  run  the  dogs  in  narrow  inclosures, 
as  it  is  thought  unsportsmanlike  not  to  give  the 
hare  every  advantage.  Certainly,  such  is  the 
spirit  of  the  sport  in  Southern  California. 

The  hare  runs  as  fast  as  the  dogs,  but  as  he 
lacks  their  endurance  he  takes  them  up  slopes 
and  over  rough  country,  displaying  great  cun- 
ning. One  hare,  which  I  have  chased  a  number 
of  times,  invariably  ran  in  a  wide  circle,  finally 
leading  the  dogs  among  the  rocks  and  escaping 


in  a  thick  grove.  This  Httle  animal  is  indebted 
to  me  for  much  exercise,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
he  enjoyed  the  running.  The  hare  being  smaller 
and  lighter  can  turn  more  quickly,  and  the  best 
dog  is  the  one  that  can  most  adroitly  meet  these 
quick  changes  of  direction.  The  pack  is  rushing 
along  when  the  hare  suddenly  turns  at  a  right 
angle  ;  poor  dogs  overrun  and  take  a  wide  turn, 
and  before  they  can  recover,  the  hare  is  far  away. 
Still,  a  good  dog  will  lose  but  little.  Once  my 
dog  had  almost  caught  a  hare,  when  the  cun- 
ning animal  darted  to  a  tree  and  began  to  run 
around  it  in  a  circle,  while  I  stopped  and  looked 
on.  Mouse  could  not  make  the  turns  so  (juickly, 
and  apparently  soon  became  dizzy,  for,  as  the 
hare  ran  off,  she  came  to  me  very  much  embar- 
rassed at  ni)-  laughter.  Another  time  I  saw  a 
Jack  turn  suddenly,  dodge  Mouse's  snap  at 
him,  and  dart  between  her  legs  and  away. 

Master  M'Grath,  the  famous  dog  of  Lord 
Lurgan,  was  for  many  years  the  fastest  dog  in 
the  world,  but  in  making  comparisons  it  should 
be  remembered  that  the  English  hare  is  not  so 
swift  a  runner  as  our  Western  "  jack-rabbit," 
or  hare. 

The  greyhound,  running  by  sight  alone,  shows 
remarkable  intelligence  in  following  the  game, 
leaping  into  the  air,  as  we  have  seen,  looking 
sharply  about,  and  using  its  intelligence  in  a  mar- 
velous way.    When  a  hare  is  caught,  he  is  killed 

instantly  and  tossed  into  the  air,  the  other  dogs 
recognizing  the  winner's  rights  and  rarely  mak- 
ing an  attempt  to  touch  the  game  after  the  death. 

Besides  being  shapely  and  beautiful,  the  grey- 
hound has  both  courage  and  affection.  It  will 
run  down  a  deer  or  wolf  as  quickly  as  a  hare, 
and  is  ferocious  in  its  anger  -with  a  large  foe. 
My  dogs  are  remarkably  affectionate  and  in- 
telHgent,  extremely  sensitive  to  kindness  or 
rebuke.  The  moment  the  house  is  opened  in 
the  morning.  Mouse,  if  not  forbidden,  rushes 
upstairs,  pushes  open  my  door,  and  greets  me 
as  if  we  had  been  separated  for  months.  Then 
she  will  dart  into  my  dressing-room  and  reappear 
with  a  shoe,  or  a  leggin,  if  she  can  find  it,  and 
jjresent  it  to  me,  wagging  her  tail  and  saying 
])lainly,  "  Come,  it  's  time  to  be  up ;  a  fine  day 
for  a  run  !  " 

No  charge  of  cruelty  can  be  brought  against 
coursing  where  the  animal  is  faithfully  followed. 
In  shooting  rabbits  and  hares  they  will  often 
escape  badly  wounded,  but  death  by  the  hounds 
is  instantaneous. 

The  death  of  the  hare  is  not  considered  an 
important  feature,  the  pleasure  being  derived 
from  watching  the  movements  of  the  dogs,  their 
magnificent  bursts  of  speed,  the  turns  and  stops, 
their  strategy  in  a  hundred  ways,  and  especially 
from  the  enjoyment  of  riding  over  the  finest 
winter  country  in  the  world. 

«%?#>/. ,  ^. 



By  C.  F.  Lummis. 

It  is  curious  how  much  more  we  hear  of  the 
marvelous  customs  and  strange  peoples  of  other 
lands  than  of  those  still  to  be  found  in  our  own 
great  nation.  Almost  every  schoolboy,  for  in- 
stance, knows  of  the  Australian  boomerang- 
throwers  ;  but  very  few  people  in  the  East  are 
aware  that  -within  the  limits  of  the  United  States, 
in  the  portion  longest  inhabited  by  Caucasians, 
we  have  a  race  of  ten  thousand  aborigines  who 
are  practically  boomerang-throv/ers.  It  is  true 
that  they  do  not  achieve  the  wonderful  parabolas 
and  curves  of  the  Australians;  and,  for  that 
matter,  we  are  learning  that  many  of  the  astound- 
ing tales  told  of  the  Australian  winged  club  are 
mere  fiction.  It  is  true,  however,  that  while  the 
Bushmen  can  not  so  throw  the  boomerang  that 
it  will  kill  an  animal  and  then  return  to  the 
thrower,  they  can  make  it  return  from  a  sportive 
throw  in  the  air;  and  that  they  can  impart  to 
it,  even  in  a  murderous  flight,  gyrations  which 
seem  quite  as  remarkable  as  did  the  curving  of  a 
base-ball  when  that  "  art "  was  first  discovered. 

The  Pueblo  Indians,  who  are  our  American 
boomerang-throwers,  attempt  no  such  subdeties. 
Their  clubs  are  of  boomerang  shape,  and  can  not 
be  excelled  in  deadly  accuracy  and  force  by  the 
Australian  weapon;  but  they  are  thrown  only 
to  kill,  and  then  to  lie  by  the  victim  till  picked 
up.  Even  without  the  "  return-ball  "  feature,  the 
Vol.  XVII.— 2.  s 

Pueblo  club-throwing  is  the  most  wonderful  ex- 
hibition of  marksmanship  and  skill  within  my 
experience  —  and  that  includes  all  kinds  of  hunt- 
ing for  all  lands  of  game  on  this  continent.  Under 
the  circumstances  in  which  these  clubs  are  used, 
rifles,  never  so  skillfully  handled,  could  not  be 
more  effective. 

The  Pueblos  are  a  peculiar  people.  Quiet, 
friendly,  intelligent,  industrious  farmers,  they 
dwell  in  quaint  villages  of  neat  and  comfortable 
adobes,  which  are  a  never-failing  wonder  to  the 
intelligent  traveler  in  New  Mexico.  Their  primi- 
tive weapons,  of  course,  gave  place  long  ago  to 
modem  fire-arms.  All  have  good  rifles  and  six- 
shooters,  usually  of  the  best  American  makes, 
and  are  expert  in  the  use  of  them.  But  there  is 
one  branch  of  the  chase  for  which  the  guns  are 
left  at  home  —  and  that  is  the  rabbit-drive.  The 
outfit  of  each  of  the  throng  of  hunters  out  for 
a  rabbit-hunt  consists  merely  of  three  elbow- 
crooked  clubs. 

When  that  forgotten  hero,  Alvar  Nuiiez  Cabeza 
de  Vaca,  beside  whose  privations  and  wander- 
ings those  of  all  other  explorers  seem  petty, 
first  set  foot  in  the  interior  of  the  country  now 
called  the  United  States,  more  than  three  and  a 
half  centuries  ago,  he  found  the  Pueblos  already 
using  their  boomerangs.  Returning  to  Spain 
after  his  unparalleled  journey  of  nine  years  on 




foot  through  an  unknown  world,  Vaca  wrote  in 
his  journal,  about  1539  : 

"These  Indians  were  armed  with  clubs  which 
they  threw  with  astonishing  precision,  and  killed 
with  them  more  hares  than  they  could  consume. 
There  were  hares  in  great  abundance.  When 
one  was  seen,  the  Indians  would  surround  and 
attack  him  with  their  clubs,  driving  him  from 
one  to  another  till  he  was  killed." 

Two  varieties  of  rabbits  are  still  wonderfully 
abundant  in  New  Mexico.  Many  are  shot  in  the 
winter  by  the  Pueblos,  casually,  but  rabbit  hunt- 
ing in  earnest  is  confined  to  the  w^arm  months, 
generally  beginning  in  May. 

I  had  lived  a  long  time  in  the  pueblo  of  Isleta 
before  the  twelve  hundred  Indians  who  are  "my 
friends  and  fellow-citizens  "  decided  upon  a  rab- 
bit-drive. We  had  had  dances, —  strange  in  sig- 
nificance as  in  performance, —  superb  foot-races 
and  horse-races  and  other  diversions  on  the 
holidays  of  the  saints ;  but  no  hunting.  One 
day,  however,  I  saw  a  boy  digging  a  root  which 
he  whittled  into  significant  shape  ;  and  later  in 
the  afternoon  wrinkled  Lorenzo,  my  next-door 
neighbor,  left  his  burro  and  his  ponderous  irri- 
gatmg-hoe  outside  the  door,  and  stepped  into 
my  little  adobe  room  with  an  air  of  unusual  im- 
portance. He  seated  himself  slowly,  reached  for 
my  tobacco  and  a  corn-husk,  and  rolled  a  ciga- 
rette with  great  deliberation ;  but  all  the  time 
I  could  see  that  he  was  swelling  with  important 

"  Que  hay,  compadre ?"*  \  asked  at  last,  pass- 
ing him  a  match. 

"  Good  news !  Perhaps,  to-morrow  w-e  hunt 
rabbits.  There  are  many  on  the  llano  toward 
the  Hill  of  the  Wind.  This  evening  you  will 
know,  if  you  hear  the  lombe  and  the  crier." 

Sure  enough,  just  before  the  sun  went  do^^•n 
behind  the  sacred  crater,  the  muflled  ^'■pom! 
pom!"  of  the  big  drum  floated  across  the  plaza 
to  me :  and  soon  the  Isleta  Daily  Herald,  as  I 
might  call  him, —  a  tall,  deep-chested  Pueblo 
with  a  thunderous  voice, —  was  circulating  the 
news.  He  stalked  solemnly  through  the  un- 
certain streets,  his  great  voice  rolling  out  now 
and  then  in  sonorous  syllables  which  might 
have  been  distinguished  at  half  a  mile.  A 
convenient  newspaper,  truly,  for  a  population 
which  does  not  read !  The  governor  ordered, 
*  What  is  it,  friend  ?  t  The  mesa  of 

he  said,  a  great  hunt  to-morrow.  After  mass, 
all  those  who  were  to  hunt  must  meet  at  the 
top  of  the  mal  pais  iiiesa,\  west  of  the  gardens. 
And  Francisco  Duran  had  been  chosen  Capitaii 
of  the  hunt. 

At  10  o'clock  next  morning  Juan  Rey  brought 
me  the  very  laziest  horse  in  the  world.  Old 
Lorenzo  was  already  astride  his  pinto  burro,  with 
three  clubs  lashed  behind  the  dumpy  saddle,  and 
in  his  hand  the  customary  short  stick  wherewith 
to  guide  Flojo  by  whacks  on  both  sides  of  the 
neck  —  for  burros  are  not  trained  to  bridles. 

We  poked  across  the  level  river-bottom,  wound 
through  the  beautiful  gardens  and  orchards, 
splashed  across  the  roily  irrigating-ditches,  and 
at  last,  after  a  short,  sharp  "  tug,"  stood  upon  the 
top  of  the  mesa,  which  with  its  black  lava  clifts 
hems  the  valley  on  the  west.  We  were  early, 
but  the  arrival  of  a  boy  with  a  spade  —  to  be 
used  in  evicting  such  rabbits  as  might  seek  their 
burrows — enabled  us  to  beguile  the  hot  hour  of 
waiting  by  digging  and  eating  an  aromatic  root. 

Presently  the  hunters  came  swarming  over 
the  huge  yellow  sand-hill  to  the  south,  and 
rode  toward  us  in  a  shifting  patch  of  color  the 
units  of  which  danced,  revolved,  and  mingled 
and  fell  apart  like  the  gay  flakes  of  a  kaleido- 
scope. There  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  of 
them,  from  white-headed  men  of  ninety  to 
supple  boys  of  twelve.  Their  white,  flapping 
calzoiidllos,\  red  print  shirts,  maroon  leggins 
and  moccasins,  with  the  various  hues  of  their 
animals,  made  a  pretty  picture  against  the 
somber  background.  Most  of  them  rode  their 
small  but  tireless  ponies  —  descended,  as  are 
all  the  "native"  horses  of  the  plains,  from  the 
matchless  Arab  steeds  brought  from  Spain  by  the 
Cotiquistadores.  A  few  were  perched  upon  solemn 
burros ;  and  a  dozen  ambitious  young  men  were 
afoot.  Only  three  besides  myself  carried  fire- 
arms. Just  as  the  crowd  neared  us,  a  big  jack- 
rabbit  leaped  up  fi-om  his  nap  behind  a  tiny  sage- 
bush,  and  came  loping  away  toward  the  cliff". 
The  clubs  had  not  yet  be.en  unlashed  from  the 
saddles,  but  handsome  Pablo's  sLx-shooter  rang 
out,  and  the  "  American  kangaroo,"  whirling 
half  a  dozen  somersaults  from  his  own  inertia, 
lay  motionless. 

Five  minutes  later,  we  were  all  huddled  to- 
gether on  the  edge  of  the  clifl",  facing  to  the  brown 
the  bad  land.  %  Trousers. 


I  1 

rolling  uplands  westward.  In  front  was  the  with- 
ered capitally  consulting  with  the  other  old  men. 
Then  a  few  grandsires  dismounted  and  squatted 
upon  the  ground  ;  the  captain  called  out  a  brief 
command  in  Tegua,  and  off  we  went  loping  in 
two  files,  making  a  huge  V,  whose  sides  grew 
longer  and  farther  apart  as  the  old  men  at  the 
angle  grew  smaller  and  smaller  behind  us.  At 
every  hundred  yards  or  so,  the  rear  man  of  each 
file  dropped  out  of  the  procession  and  sat  wait- 
ing, his  horse's  head  facing  the  interior  of  the  V. 

When  we  had  ridden  a  mile  and  a  half,  the 
foremost  men  of  the  opposite  file  were  nearly  as 
far  from  us.  We  could  barely  see  them  against 
the  side  of  a  long  swell.  Then  a  faint  shrill  call 
from  the  captain  floated  across  to  us,  and  we 
began  to  bend  our  arm  of  the  V  inward,  the 
others  doing  the  same,  till  at  last  the  ends  of 
the  two  arms  met,  and  instead  of  a  V  we  had 
an  irregular  O,  two  miles  in  its  longest  diameter, 
and  marked  out  on  the  plain  by  the  dot-like 

Now  sharp  eyes  could  detect  that,  the  o\al 
was  beginning  to  shrink  inward  from  the  other 
end.  The  old  men  were  walking  toward  us ; 
and  one  after  another  the  sentinels  left  their  posts 
and  began  to  move  forward  and  inward.  Sharp 
and  shrill  their  "  Hi  !-i-i !  "  ran  along  the  con- 
tracting circle.  Some  of  the  hunters  were  still 
mounted,  some  led  their  horses  by  the  lariat,  and 
some  turned  them  loose  to  follow  at  will.  Sud- 
denly there  was  a  babel  of  shouts  away  down 
the  line.  We  who  were  waiting  patiently  on  our 
little  rise  at  the  head  of  the  "  surround,"  saw  a 
sudden  scurrying  at  a  point  in  the  circle  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  away.  The  excitement  ran  along 
the  line  toward  us  as  waves  run  along  a  rope 
when  an  end  is  shaken.  One  after  another  we 
saw  sentinels  dashing  forward,  \\ith  uplifted  arms. 

"  Alll  viene!  "*  called  Lorenzo  to  me,  leaping 
from  Flojo  and  running  forward  with  two  clubs 
grasped  in  his  left  hand,  and  one  brandished 
aloft  in  the  right.  The  third  man  to  the  left 
doubled  himself  like  a  jack-knife  with  the  effort 
which  sent  his  c\v^  ssh-shsh-ing  'Cnxow^  the  air; 
but  the  long-eared  fugitive  had  seen  him,  and 
floundered  twenty  feet  aside  in  the  nick  of  time. 
Old  Lorenzo's  arm  had  been  "  feinting  "  back 
and  forth  as  he  ran ;  and  now,  on  a  sudden,  the 
curved  missile  sprang  out  through  the  air,  rose, 

•  There 

settled  again,  and  went  skimming  along  within 
a  yard  of  the  ground  —  a  real  "  daisy-cutter,"  as 
a  ball-player  would  have  called  it.  The  dis- 
tance was  full  fifty  )-ards,  and  the  rabbit  was 
going  faster  than  any  dog  on  earth,  save  the 
fleetest  greyhound,  could  run.  It  would  have 
been  an  extraordinary  shot  with  a  rifle.  I  was 
opening  my  mouth  to  say,  "  Too  far,  com- 
padre!" — but  before  the  three  words  could 
tumble  from  my  tongue,  there  was  a  little  thud, 
a  shrill  squeal  from  out  a  flurry  of  dust,  and 
seventy-year  old  Lorenzo  was  bounding  for- 
ward like  a  boy,  only  to  return,  a  moment 
later,  with  a  big  jack,  which  he  proudly  lashed 
behind  his  saddle.  The  club  had  hit  the  rab- 
bit in  the  side,  and  had  torn  him  nearly  in  two. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  first  round  was  over,  with 
a  net  result  of  only  three  rabbits,  and  we  were 
all  huddled  together  again  in  a  little  council  of 
war.  Then  the  white-headed  chief  stepped  out 
in  front ;  and  those  who  had  hats  removed  them, 
and  all  listened  reverently  while  his  still  resonant 
voice  rose  in  an  earnest  prayer  to  the  god  of  the 
chase  to  —  send  us  more  rabbits  !  The  old  men 
took  from  secret  recesses  the  quaint  little  hunt- 
ing-fetich —  a  stone  image  of  the  coyote,  most 
successful  of  hunters — and  did  it  reverence. 

^^  Hai-ko.'"  shouted  the  captain  at  last,  and 
oft"  went  the  divergent  lines  again,  over  the  ridge 
and  down  the  gentle  ten-mile  slope  toward  the 
foot  of  the  Hill  of  the  Wind.  At  the  head  of  the 
loping  horses  of  each  file  ran  the  boys,  tireless 
and  agile  as  young  deer;  and  they  kept  their 
place  during  the  seven  hours  of  the  hunt.  The 
old  men  sat  as  usual  in  a  row,  while  the  long 
human  line  ran  out  on  either  side,  tying  a  senti- 
nel knot  in  itself  at  every  few  rods.  The  ground 
was  now  more  favorable.  The  sage  and  cha- 
parro  were  taller  and  more  abundant,  and  where 
the  shelter  was  so  good  there  were  sure  to  be 
rabbits.  There  is  a  peculiar  fascination  in  watch- 
ing those  long  arms  as  they  reach  out  for  the 
"surrounds."  When  I  have  a  good  horse  I  al- 
ways seek  an  elevation  whence  to  take  in  the 
whole  inspiring  scene,  and  then  gallop  back  to 
the  cordon  in  time  to  be  "in  at  the  death";  but 
to-day  I  had  to  be  content  if  I  could  keep  Bayo 
in  the  procession  at  all.  But  even  from  the  level 
it  was  a  gallant  sight, — that  long  array  of  far- 
off  centaurs  skirting  the  plain,  unmistakably 
he  comes ! 




Indian  in  every  motion,  the  free  rise  and  fall  of 
the  bronco  lope,  distinguishable  even  when  the 
figures  had  dwindled  to  wee  specks  on  the  hori- 
zon; and  before  and  beside  me  swart  faces  and 
stalwart  forms,  sweeping  on  in  the  whirlwind  of 
our  hoof-beats. 

The  second  "  surround  "  was  much  larger  than 
the  first,  the  sentinels  having  been  placed  at 
greater  intervals.  Just  as  the  ends  of  the  three- 
mile  circle  came  together,  a  gaunt  jack  sprang  from 
the  earth  at  our  very  feet,  and  dashed  through 
the  line  before  the  hunters  could  even  grasp 
their  clubs.  Ambrosio,  a  young  Apollo  in  bronze, 
wheeled  his  big  gray  like  a  flash,  and  dashed  in 
pursuit  —  so  quickly,  indeed,  that  I  had  to  throw 
my  gun  in  the  air  to  avoid  giving  him  a  dose  of 
shot  intended  for  the  rabbit;  whereupon  the 
waggish  old  ex-governor,  Vicente,  called  out  to 
me  :  "  Cuidado  .'*  Tiiis  is  not  to  hunt  Cristianos, 
but  rabbits ! " 

Ambrosio's  mount  was  one  of  the  fleetest  in 
the  pueblo,  victor  in  many  a  hard-fought  gallo 
race;  and  now  he  went  thundering  down  the 
plain,  devouring  distance  with  mighty  leaps,  and 
plainly  glorying  in  the  mad  race  as  much  as  did 
his  rider.  Ambrosio  sat  like  a  carven  statue,  save 
that  the  club  poised  in  his  right  hand  waved  to 
and  fro  tentatively,  and  his  long  jet  hair  streamed 
back  ui)on  the  wind.  Todillo  had  found  a  foe- 
man  worthy  of  his  hoofs.  Grandly  as  his  sinewy 
legs  launched  him  across  the  llano,  away  ahead 
gleamed  that  strange  animate  streak  of  gray-on- 
white,  whose  wonderful  "  pats  "  seemed  never  to 
touch  the  ground.  And  when  the  thunderous 
pursuer  was  gaining,  and  I  could  see  —  for  / 
was  chasing  not  the  rabbit  but  the  sight — that 
Ambrosio  drew  back  his  arm,  there  came  a  mar- 
velous flash  to  the  left,  and  there  was  the  jack, 
flying  at  right  angles  to  his  course  of  an  instant 
before,  and  now  broadside  toward  us;  I  say 
"  flying,"  for  so  it  seemed.  The  eye  could 
scarcely  be  convinced  that  that  astounding  ap- 
parition sailing  along  above  the  dwarfed  brush 
was  really  a  quadruped,  forced  to  gather  mo- 
mentum fi-om  mother  earth  like  the  rest  of  us. 
It  appeared  rather  some  great  hawk,  skimming 
close  to  the  ground  in  chase  of  its  scurrying 
prey.  Tr)'  as  I  would,  my  eyes  refused  to  real- 
ize that  that  motion  was  not  flight  but  a  series 
of  incredible  bounds. 

There  is  none  of  this  fascinating  illusion  about 
the  ordinary  run  of  the  jack-rabbit;  and  yet, 
following  one  in  the  snow,  when  he  had  no  more 
pressing  pursuer  than  myself  on  foot,  I  have 
measured  a  jump  of  twenty-two  feet  I  What  one 
can  do  when  pressed  to  his  utmost,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  decide  definitely ;  but  it  is  much 
more  than  that. 

Had  Todillo  been  unused  to  the  sport,  the 
race  would  have  ended  then  and  there ;  but  he 
knew  rabbits  as  well  as  did  his  master.  If  he 
could  not  match  —  and  no  other  animal  ever 
did  match  —  the  supreme  grace  and  agility  with 
which  his  provoking  little  rival  had  doubled  on 
the  course,  the  tremendous  convulsion  of  strength 
with  which  he  swerved  and  followed  was  hardly 
less  admirable.  It  seemed  as  if  the  efibrt  must 
have  broken  him  in  twain. 

Again  the  tall  pursuer  was  gaining  on  the 
pursued.  Fifty  feet  —  forty-eight  —  forty-five  — 
and  .*\mbrosio  rose  high  in  his  stirrups,  his  long 
arm  flashed  through  the  air,  and  a  dark  streak 
.shot  out  80  swifdy  that  for  an  instant  the  horse 
seemed  to  have  stopped,  so  easily  it  outsped 
him.  And  in  the  same  motion,  at  the  same 
gallop,  Ambrosio  was  swooping  low  from  his 
saddle,  so  that  from  our  side  we  could  see  only 
his  left  arm  and  leg  ;  and  in  another  instant  was 
in  his  seat  again,  swinging  the  rabbit  triumph- 
antly overhead  I 

We  galloped  back  to  the  "  surround,"  which 
was  slowly  closing  in,  and  now  not  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  across.  The  inclosed  brush  seemed  alive 
with  rabbits.  At  least  a  dozen  were  dashing 
hither  and  yon,  seeking  an  avenue  of  escape. 
One  old  fellow  in  the  center  sat  up  on  his 
haunches,  with  ears  erect,  to  take  in  the  whole 
situation.  But  his  coolness  cost  him  dear.  "  Cui- 
dado!" came  a  yell  from  across  the  circle;  and 
we  sprang  aside  just  before  Bautisto's  rifle 
flashed,  and  the  too  prudent  rabbit  fell,  the 
ball  passing  through  his  head  and  singing  shrilly 
by  us. 

Now  the  rabbits  began  to  grow  desperate, 
and  to  try  to  break  through  the  line  at  all  haz- 
ards. As  soon  as  one  was  seen  bearing  down  on 
the  line,  the  twenty  or  thirty  nearest  men  made 
a  wild  rally  toward  him.  Sometimes  he  would 
double  away,  and  sometimes  try  to  dodge  be- 
tween their  very  legs.    Then  what  a  din  of  yells 

*  Be  careful. 


went  up !  How  the  clubs  went  whizzing  like 
giant  hail !  Surely  in  that  frantic  jam  of  mad- 
men something  besides  the  rabbit  will  be  killed! 
One  of  those  clubs  would  brain  a  man  as  surely 
as  it  would  crack  an  egg-shell.  But  no  !  The 
huddle  breaks,  the  yells  die  out,  and  the  "  mad- 
men "  are  running  back  to  their  places,  while 
one  happy  boy  is  tying  a  long  gray  something 
behind  his  saddle.  No  one  is  even  limping. 
Not  a  shin  has  been  cracked  —  much  less  a 
head.  In  all  my  long  acquaintance  with  the 
Pueblos,  I  have  never  known  of  such  a  thing  as 
one  getting  hurt  even  in  the  most  furious  melee 
of  the  rabbit-drive.  Strangest  of  all,  there  is 
never  any  dispute  about  the  game.  They  always 
know  which  one  of  that  rain  of  clubs  did  tlie 
work  —  though  how  they  know,  is  beyond  m\- 

Yonder  is  another  rush.  The  first  club  thrown 
breaks  the  jack's  leg ;  and  realizing  his  desperate 
situation,  the  poor  creature  dives  into  the  base- 
ment door  of  his  tiny  brother,  the  cotton-tail — 
for  the  jack  never  burrows,  and  never  trusts  him- 
self in  a  hole  save  at  the  last  extremity.  Our 
root-digger  rushes  forward,  sticks  his  spade  in 
the  hole  to  mark  it,  and  resumes  his  clubs.  When 
the  "  surround  "  is  over,  he  will  come  back  to 
dig  eight  or  ten  feet  for  his  sure  victim. 

So  the  afternoon  wears  on.    Each  "  surround  " 


takes  a  little  over  half  an  hour,  and  each  now 
nets  the  hunters  from  ten  to  twenty  rabbits  — 
mostly  jacks,  with  now  and  then  a  fuzzy  cotton- 
tail. Once  in  a  while  a  jack  succeeds  in  slipping 
through  the  line,  and  is  oft'  like  the  wind.  But 
after  him  are  from  one  to  twenty  hunters ;  and 
when  they  come  back,  ten  minutes  or  half  an 
hour  later,  with  foaming  horses,  it  is  strange, 
indeed,  if  the  fugitive  is  not  danghng  at  the 
back  of  one  of  them. 

On  the  slope  of  the  crater  we  strike  a 
"  bunch  "  of  quail  —  the  beautiful  quail  of  the 
Southwest,  with  their  slate-colored  coats  and 
dainty,  fan-like  crests  —  and  not  one  escapes. 
I  have  seen  the  unerring  club  bring  one  down 
even  from  a  flock  on  the  wing ! 

The  "  surrounds  "  are  now  making  eastward, 
and  each  one  brings  us  nearer  home.  It  has 
been  a  good  day's  work  —  thirty-five  miles  of 
hard  riding,  and  fourteen  "  surrounds  " ;  and  on 
the  cantle  of  every  saddle  bumps  a  big  mass  of 
gray  fur. 

The  evening  shadows  grow  deeper  in  the 
cafions  of  the  far-off  sandias,  chasing  the  last 
ruddy  glow  up  and  up  the  scarred  cliffs.  And 
in  the  soft  New  Mexican  twilight  our  long 
cavalcade  goes  ringing  down  the  hard  Rio 
Puerco  road  toward  our  quaint,  green-rimmed 
village  beside  "  the  fierce  river  of  the  North." 



By  Julian  Hawthorne. 


Many  centuries  ago, —  as  many  as  there  are 
days  in  the  month, —  the  great  King  sat  beside 
the  river  Nile  in  Egypt,  and  watched  the  labor 
of  a  myriad  slaves,  building  the  mighty  pile  of 
his  pyramid.  And  on  his  strong  brown  knee, 
playing  with  a  coral  rattle  with  golden  bells,  sat 
a  little  child,  whom  the  great  King  loved  be- 
cause of  its  beauty  and  gentleness. 

"  What  is  that  which  they  build  there  with  so 
many  big  stones  ?  "  the  child  asked. 

"It  is  my  tomb,"  answered  the  King. 

"  What  is  a  tomb  ?  "  asked  the  child  again. 

"  When  I  have  lived  my  life  and  am  dead," 
said  the  King,  "  and  my  spirit  has  gone  to  meet 
Osiris,  and  be  judged  by  him, —  when  that  time 
comes,  the  embalmers  will  take  my  royal  body, 
and  cunningly  embalm  it,  so  that  it  can  not  perish, 
nor  decay  come  near  it.  Then  they  will  wrap  it 
in  many  wrappings  of  fine  linen  steeped  in  per- 
fumes, and  seal  it  up  in  an  emblazoned  mummy- 
case,  and  they  will  bear  it,  in  gorgeous  procession, 
to  yonder  tomb.  In  the  midst  of  the  tomb  there 
is  a  secret  chamber,  hidden  from  discovery  by 
many  a  wise  device;  and  in  the  chamber  a 
sarcophagus,  carven  from  a  single  stone." 

"  Will  they  put  your  body  in  the  sarcophagus?" 
asked  the  child. 

"  Aye,  they  will  lay  it  there,"  replied  the  King. 

"  What  will  they  do  then  ?  "  the  child  asked. 

"  Then,"  said  the  King,  "  they  wdll  seal  up  the 
tomb,  and  the  door  of  the  secret  chamber  ^vill 
they  close  with  a  strong  curtain  of  stone ;  and 
they  will  block  up  the  passage  leading  to  the 
chamber,  and  conceal  the  entrance  to  the  pas- 
sage, so  that  no  man  can  find  it.  That  will 
they  do." 

"  But  why  will  they  do  all  this  ?  "  asked  the 

"  Have  I  not  already  told  you  ?  "  said  the 
King.  "  It  is  done,  that  my  body  may  not  perish, 
but  endure  forever." 

"Forever!"  said  the  child.  "How  long  is 
that  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that  is  an  idle  question,"  replied  the 
King,  smiling.  "  Who  can  tell  how  long  ?  The 
High  Priest  is  a  wise  man,  but  even  he  knows 
not.  But  see  how  strongly  the  pyramid  is  built, 
its  sides  lean  together  and  uphold  each  other ; 
its  foundations  are  in  the  rock,  it  can  not  fall 
to  ruins ;  when  all  other  works  of  man  have 
vanished  from  the  earth,  my  pyramid  and  my 
tomb  shall  stand." 

"  But  how  long  will  it  stand  ?  "  asked  the  child. 
"Will  it  stand  a  thousand  years  ?  " 

"  .\  thousand  years !  "  cried  the  King ;  "  Aye  ! 
and  more  than  a  thousand  !  " 

"  Will  it  stand  three  thousand  years  ?  "  said 
the  child. 

"  It  will  stand  three  thousand  years,"  the  King 
answered  proudly. 

"  Will  it  stand  ten  thousand  years  ?  " 

"  Ten  thousand  years  ?  "  repeated  the  King, 
thoughtfully.  "  That  would  be  a  weary  time ! 
Yet,  I  think  it  will  last  ten  thousand  years." 
But  after  he  had  said  it,  the  great  King  sighed, 
and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand. 

Still  the  child  would  not  be  satisfied.  "Will 
it  last  a  hundred  thousand  years  ?  "  it  asked. 

Thenthe  King  bent  his  brows  in  anger.  "Ques- 
tion me  no  more  !  "  he  said.  "  What  does  a  child 
know  of  rime  ?  You  add  centuries  to  centuries 
with  a  breath,  and  think,  because  a  hundred 


thousand  years  are  quickly  said,  that  they  will 
pass  as  quickly.  A  hundred  thousand  years  ago — 
so  the  High  Priest  says — this  mighty  earth,  with 
its  seas  and  lands  and  mountains,  its  trees  and 
beasts  and  men, —  all  these  were  but  as  a  vapor 
of  the  air,  and  as  a  sleeping  man's  dream  of  what 
may  come  to  pass  on  the  morrow.  A  hundred 
thousand  years  hence, —  who  dare  look  forward 
so  far  ?  To  you,  that  are  a  foolish  child,  years 
are  but  a  sound,  and  a  fancy ;  but  to  men,  who 
have  lived,  and  striven,  and  hoped,  and  sorrowed, 
and  suffered,  years  are  harder  than  adamant, 
stronger  than  brass,  heavier  than  gold,  fatal  as 
death.  A  hundred  thousand  years !  Child,  the 
face  of  Osiris  himself  shall  be  darkened  before 
they  be  passed  !  " 

Having  thus  spoken,  the  King  arose  and  gave 
the  child  to  its  nurse,  for  his  spirit  was  troubled. 
And  the  child  also  was  troubled  and  wept;  not 
at  the  King's  words,  for  it  understood  them  not ; 
but  because  he  had  set  his  foot  on  the  coral 
rattle  vrith  golden  bells,  and  had  crushed  it  to 

The  nurse  took  the  child  and  carried  it  to  the 
barge  on  the  river  Nile ;  and  the  boatmen  took 
their  oars  to  row  across  the  river.  But  it  hap- 
pened that,  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  the  child 
slipped  from  the  nurse's  arms  and  fell  into  the 
river;  and  the  current  caught  it,  and  it  was 
drowned.  It  seemed  to  the  child  that  it  fell 
asleep ;  but  immediately  it  was  awake  again ; 
and  opening  its  eyes,  behold !  it  was  in  a  world 
glorious  with  life  and  beauty,  and  sweet  with 
music  and  happiness  and  love. 

"  Yes,  this  is  Heaven,"  said  the  child  to  itself; 
and  with  that  it  sprang  up  and  went  to  seek  its 
little  sister,  who  had  gone  to  Heaven  a  little 
while  before. 

Soon  the  child  found  its  sister,  where  she  lay 
sleeping  under  the  shadow  of  a  plane-tree.  So, 
remembering  that  she  had  been  most  fond  of  a 


certain  blue  flower,  with  a  golden  heart  and  a 
slender  stalk,  the  child  gathered  a  handful  of 
these  flowers  and  placed  them  beside  her,  where 
she  would  see  them  when  she  awoke. 

Then  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  aroused  the 
sleeping  sister  and  she  opened  her  eyes;  and 
when  she  saw  the  flowers,  and  her  brother 
beside  her,  she  gave  a  cry  of  joy;  and  they 
kissed  each  other. 

An  angel  came  up  to  them,  and  smiled  upon 
them,  and  said,  "  Come  with  me,  and  look  upon 
the  place  of  the  pyramid  of  the  great  King." 

They  went  with  him,  putting  their  hands  in  his. 
And  he  brought  them  to  an  opening  in  Heaven, 
below  which  lay  the  earth  and  the  place  of  the 
pyramid,  and  said,  "  Look  !  " 

They  looked  through  the  opening,  and  saw 
the  river  Nile,  and  the  bank  beside  the  river, 
where  the  pyramid  of  the  King  was  built.  But 
the  pyramid  was  no  longer  there.  There  was 
only  a  level  tract  of  sand,  and  a  lizard  lying 
dead  upon  it. 

"  Where  is  the  pyramid  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

"  It  has  perished,"  replied  the  angel. 

"  How  can  it  have  perished  so  soon  ?  "  asked 
the  child.  "  I  was  there  in  the  morning,  and 
sat  on  the  King's  knee,  and  saw  the  men  build- 
ing. And  the  King  said  it  would  last  ten  thou- 
sand years." 

"  And  if  he  did,"  said  the  angel,  "  are  not  the 
ten  thousand  years  past,  and  a  hundred  thousand 
years  added  unto  them  ?  " 

"  While  I  have  been  gathering  these  flowers  ?  " 
cried  the  child.     "  Then,  what  are  years  ?  " 

"  Years  are  pain,"  replied  the  angel,  "  but  love 
is  eternity." 

The  child  looked  in  the  angel's  face.  "  I 
know  you  now,"  he  said ;  "  you  are  the  King." 

But  the  angel  folded  the  two  children  in  his 
arms ;  and  there  were  tears  on  his  face,  even  in 


By  Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen. 


^VER  the  stable  there 
was  a  small  room  which 
was  intended  for  a 
coachman.  But  as  Mr. 
Craig  could  not  afford 
to  keep  a  coachman, 
Henry,  his  son,  took 
possession  of  the  room 
and  fitted  it  up  for  a 
study.  He  papered  the 
\valls  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  with  pictures 
from  the  illustrated  weeklies,  and  sat  by  the  hour 
staring  at  them,  making  out  the  most  astonishing 
stories.  He  knew  of  no  more  delightful  occupation 
than  puzzling  out  the  connection  between  scenes 
and  subjects  which,  by  pure  accident,  had  been 
put  side  by  side,  and  tracing  a  coherent  story,  sug- 
gested by  the  pictures.  Thus,  for  instance,  there 
was  a  wood-cut  entitled,  "Shine,  sir?"  represent- 
ing a  boot-black  hailing  a  cu.stomer.  Henry,  for 
the  sake  of  convenience,  named  him  Tom  Pratt, 
and  began  to  wonder  what  were  the  later  events 
of  his  career.  Presently  he  discovered  a  figure 
in  which  he  recognized  a  resemblance  to  Tom 
Pratt.  It  was  in  a  picture  entitled,  "  A  Scene 
in  the  Police  Court  " —  evidently  the  gentleman 
whose  boots  Tom  had  blacked  had  accused  him 
of  picking  his  pocket.  Tom  bravely  affirmed  his 
innocence ;  but  the  Judge,  taking  the  gentleman's 
word  in  preference  to  Tom's,  sentenced  him  to 
three  months  on  the  Island.  In  the  right-hand 
upper  comer  of  the  wall  was  a  picture  of  an 
arrest,  and  Henry  had  no  difficulty  in  comin- 
cing  himself  that  now,  at  last,  the  real  thief  had 
been  found ;  and  after  his  confession  to  the  In- 
spector, Tom  is  released.  A  large  full-page  cut 
representing  a  "  Monmouth  Park  Handicap 
Race  "  gave  the  desired  clue  to  the  next  chapter. 
For  there  Henr)-  found  again  his  friend  Tom 
and  Mr.  Jenks,  the  gentleman  who  had  falsely 

accused  him.  Mr.  Jenks,  stung  by  his  conscience, 
offered  to  educate  Tom,  in  order  to  compensate 
him  for  the  wrong  he  had  done  him.  Scene 
fourth,  which  is  entitled,  "  Cleared  for  Action," 
represents  the  moment  before  the  command  is 
given  to  fire,  on  board  a  man-of-war.  There 
Henry  hails  with  joy  the  adventurous  Tom,  ^\■ho 
has  now  become  a  naval  cadet  and  is  about  to 
distinguish  himself  in  battle.  The  fifth  chapter, 
which  is  taken  from  the  London  "  Graphic,"  ex- 
hibits Tom  in  the  act  of  being  presented  in  a 
gorgeous  uniform  to  the  Czar  of  Russia.  He  is 
now  an  officer,  and  naturally  has  changed  veiy 
much.  You  would  find  it  hard  to  recognize  in 
this  handsome  young  fellow,  with  a  mustache 
and  shoulder-straps  of  gold  braid,  the  ragged 
boot-black  of  Mulberry  Street. 

But  Henr)',  somehow,  never  fails  to  recognize 
him.  He  sits  hour  after  hour,  following  him  with 
breathless  interest,  from  adventure  to  adventure, 
until  finally  "  .'\  Decoration  Day  Parade  "  be- 
comes the  culmination  of  Tom's  career.  For,  to 
Henry's  fancy,  it  represents  a  parade  in  his  hero's 
honor,  when,  covered  with  glory  and  noble  scars, 
he  returns  to  his  native  country  and  is  met  by 
themayor  and  aldermen  of  the  city,  with  speeches 
and  brass  bands  and  military  pomp. 

It  was  this  kind  of  story  Henr}'  loved  to  com- 
pose ;  and  the  same  pictures  often  furnished  him 
with  incidents  for  the  most  different  plots.  The 
"  Scene  in  the  Police  Court  "  played  an  impor- 
tant part  in  the  careers  of  no  end  of  heroes,  and 
there  was  not  a  ragged  and  disreputable  scamp 
in  the  whole  shabby  crowd  whose  life  Henry  did 
not  puzzle  out,  even  to  its  minutest  details.  He 
had  a  warm  and  charitable  heart,  and  kindly 
helped  them  out  of  all  their  difficulties.  There 
was  not  one  of  them  who  would  not  have  been 
a  gainer  if  he  could  have  stepped  out  of  his 
own  wretched,  vicious  life  into  the  happy  and 
prosperous  lot  which  Henry  provided  for  him. 

In  Hempstead,  a  little  New  England  village 


where  Henry  Craig  lived,  nothing  of  any  conse- 
quence ever  happened ;  at  least  so  it  seemed  to 
Henry.  It  had  once  been  a  flourishing  town, 
and  some  of  the  men  most  distinguished  in  our 
colonial  and  revolutionary  historj'  had  hailed 
from  it.  But  now  most  of  the  people  were  poor, 
and  the  town  had  shrunk  to 
less  than  half  its  former  size. 
All  the  young  people  seemed 
to  think  that  Hempstead 
was  a  good  place  to  be  bom 
in ;  but  they  always  liked 
it  best  after  they  had  gone 
away.  The  counrn.-  about 
the  town  was  largely  set- 
tled with  Irish  and  Scotch 
peasants,  who  managed  to 
make  a  living  out  of  the 
farms  upon  which  their 
Yankee  predecessors  had 
barely  staved  off  starvation. 
Henry's  father,  after  having 
struggled  vainly  to  make 
both  ends  meet,  had  in  dis- 
gust sold  his  homestead  of 
one  hundred  and  eighty 
acres  for  about  one-half 
of  what  the  buildings  alone 
were  worth  ;  and  now  the 
Irishman  who  had  bought 
the  farm  was  not  only  sup- 
porting a  large  and  cheer- 
fully ragged  family  upon  it. 
but  was  la\-ing  up  money. 
And  the  secret  of  this  Mr. 
Craig  soon  discovered.  The 
Hibernian  let  his  children 
go  half  naked  in  summer; 
he  bought  no  books,  read 
no  newspapers,  employed 
no  servants;  and  altogether  he  had  reduced  his 
needs  below  the  level  of  even  humble  living 
according  to  the  American  standard. 

Mr.  Craig  had  many  a  time  regretted  that  he 
had  parted  with  his  ancestral  acres.  For  the 
grocery  business  wjiich  he  was  conducting  in 
town  turned  out  to  be  in  no  wise  so  profitable 
as  he  had  expected,  and  it  was,  moreover,  con- 
fining, detrimental  to  his  health.  He  had  been 
ambitious  to  provide  his  sons  with  an  education 
Vol.  XVH.— 3. 


which  would  enable  them  to  rise  in  life,  and  it 
was  with  a  heav\-  heart  that  he  finally  bade  fare- 
well to  this  cherished  dream.  Frank,  the  eldest, 
who,  in  the  father's  j  udgment,  was  the  cleverest  of 
the  three,  was  sent  to  a  neighboring  town,  where 
he  obtained  a  position  as  clerk  in  a  drj'-goods 


WITH      ilCTLKES.     AND     SAT     C\      THE     HOUR     STARING    AT 

Store.  Anthony,  who  also  was  a  promising  lad, 
helped  Mr.  Craig  in  his  own  business,  and  Henry, 
the  j'oungest,  had  for  a  while  superintended  a 
news-stand,  on  which  he  had  managed  to  lose 
three  or  four  dollars  every  month.  Naturally 
his  father  came  to  distrust  his  business  ability, 
when  Henry  repeated  this  experiment  for  six 
months  in  succession.  And  when,  finally,  the  news- 
stand was  abolished,  Henry  found  rich  compen- 
sation for  his  loss,   in  the  stock  of  illustrated 




papers  which  were  left  on  his  hands  and  the 
amusement  which  they  afforded  him.  No  end 
of  jibes  he  had  to  endure  in  consequence  of  his 
disastrous  business  venture,  but  he  bore  them 
all  with  patience.  He  gradually  became  recon- 
ciled to  the  thought  that  he  would  never  make 
much  of  a  success  in  business ;  but,  somehow,  it 
gave  him  no  great  uneasiness.  A  trifle  shy  he 
was  in  his  intercourse  with  other  boys  and  a  little 
over-sensitive.  That  which  interested  him  above 
all  things  he  dared  not  confide  to  any  one;  for 
he  knew  that  it  would  afford  a  fine  subject  for 
ridicule.  Secretly  he  stole  up  to  his  "  study  " 
every  afternoon  and  regaled  himself  with  the 
imaginary  events  which  befell  his  imaginary 


When  Henry  was  fourteen  years  old,  his 
father  concluded  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  learn 
a  trade  whereby  he  might  make  his  living.  But 
all  the  trades  which  he  jjroijosed  seemed  equally 
uninviting  to  the  boy.  He  had  lived  so  long  in 
a  wonderland  of  his  own,  that  all  the  careers 
which  actual  life  presented  to  a  boy  in  his  posi- 
tion seemed  poor  and  paltry  by  comparison.  A 
choice  he  had  to  make,  however, —  there  was  no 
help  for  it, —  and  he  chose  the  trade  of  a  printer, 
chiefly  because  it  was  in  some  way  associated  with 
the  illustrated  papers  from  which  he  had  derived 
so  much  happiness.  Perhaps  an  opportunity 
would  be  afforded  him  to  continue  his  excursions 
into  wonderland.  Every  newspaper  had  an  ex- 
change list,  and  perhaps  he  might  contrive  to 
see  the  exchanges  now  and  then,  in  the  absence  of 
the  editor.  At  all  events,  a  printer  Henry  Craig 
resolved  to  be,  though  in  the  dim  future  he  saw 
himself  crowned  with  fame  and  honor,  received 
with  brass  bands,  and  speaking  from  platforms 
to  vast  crowds  of  people.  That  he  was  to  be 
something  great  —  he  had  no  idea  what  —  was 
a  foregone  conclusion,  and  that  his  apprentice- 
ship as  a  printer  was  to  be  merely  the  lowest  rung 
in  the  ladder  of  fame  which  he  meant  to  mount, 
seemed  also  quite  probable.  It  was  this  vision 
of  future  glor}'  which  made  him  endure  the  long 
and  tedious  apprenticeship  in  the  ofiice  of  the 
"  Hempstead  Bugle,"  where  he  set  type  day  after 
day  and  night  after  night,  until  his  finger-tips 
were   numb  and   his  back   ached.     However, 

Mr.  Martin,  the  editor,  was  a  good-natured  man, 
who  willingly  lent  him  books  and  occasionally 
spoke  an  encouraging  word  to  him.  But  when 
Henry,  emboldened  by  this  kindness,  offered 
one  of  his  poems  for  the  paper,  the  editor  quite 
changed  his  tune. 

"  Look  here,  young  man,"  he  said,  "  you  are 
getting  too  smart.  Your  business,  as  I  under- 
stand it,  is  to  set  type,  not  to  furnish  copy." 

"  This  stuff  here,"  he  continued  scornfully, 
after  having  read  the  poem,  "is  the  veriest  drivel. 
And  then  you  rhjme  room  with  fume .'  If  )ou 
don't  know  better  than  that,  you  had  better  let 
rhyming  alone  and  stick  to  type-setting." 

Henry  felt  terribly  humiliated  by  this  repri- 
mand, and  tried  to  accept  Mr.  Martin's  ad- 
vice "  to  let  rhyming  alone."  But  somehow  he 
found  that  a  more  difficult  task  than  he  had 
thought  it.  The  rhymes  7vould  come  into  his 
head,  however  mucli  he  might  try  to  banish 
them;  and  though  he  did  not  flatter  himself 
that  they  were  poetry,  he  did  take  pleasure  in 
them,  and  vaguely  imagine  that  perhaps  they 
might  point  the  way  for  him  to  the  glory  of 
which  he  dreamed. 

It  happened  during  the  third  year  of  Henry's 
apprenticeship,  when  he  was  seventeen  years  old, 
that  great  preparations  were  made  for  the  cele- 
bration of  the  second  centennial  of  the  settlement 
of  Hempstead.  A  prize  of  one  hundred  dollars 
was  offered  for  the  best  poem  on  the  occasion, 
and  the  competition  was  thrown  open  to  all 
"  poets  who  were  natives  of  Hempstead,  or  de- 
scended from  Hempstead  families."  The  wor- 
thy selectmen  who  placed  this  restriction  upon 
the  competition  had  probably  no  very  clear  idea 
of  what  they  were  doing.  It  seemed  desirable 
to  them  to  encourage  home  talent,  and  they 
considered  themselves  excessively  liberal  in  ad- 
mitting the  compositions  of  non-resident  ])oets 
"descended  from  Hempstead  families." 

When  Henr)-  Craig  saw  this  alluring  announce- 
ment in  the  "  Bugle," — he  had,  in  fact,  himself  set 
it  up,  but  the  full  meaning  of  it  had  not  dawned 
upon  him  until  now, —  his  heart  was  fired  with 
a  wild  ambition.  \\"hat  if  he  jvrote  the  poem  and 
won  the  one  hundred  dollars  ?  It  was  not  so  much 
the  money  which  he  cared  for, —  though  that,  to 
be  sure,  was  an  additional  inducement, —  as  the 
triumph  over  Mr.  Martin  who  had  sneered  at 




his  poetic  aspirations.  It  was  not  once,  but  many 
times,  since  he  presented  that  unfortunate  poem, 
that  the  editor  had  addressed  him  as  '"the  mute, 
inglorious  Milton,' "  "  the  viUage  Shakspere,"  etc., 
and  asked  him  sarcastically  how  his  muse  was 
thri\ing.  Now  Henry's  opportunit)- had  come  to 
prove  that  his  talent  was  genuine,  and  he  meant 
to  make  the  best  of  it.  Eagerly  he  began  to  dehe 
into  the  history  of  the  settlement  and  the  early 
days  of  the  town ;  and  much  interesting  material 
did  he  unearth.  He  stood  at  his  case,  setting 
type  automatically,  but  scarcely  knowing  what 
he  was  doing.  Sonorous  lines  hummed  in  his 
brain,  and  surreptitiously  he  jotted  them  down 
upon  pieces  of  paper.  It  was  on  such  an  occa- 
sion that  he  was  responsible  for  a  misprint  which 
caused  no  end  of  amusement  in  the  town.  In 
an  excerpt  from  a  letter  recording  the  travels 
of  a  local  statesman  whose  pretensions  were  all 
out  of  proportion  to  his  merit,  he  printed,  "  On 
April  6th,  at  2  p.  m.,  the  Senator  reached  the 
summit  of  the  Asinine,"  instead  of  "  the  summit 
of  the  Apennines." 

He  barely  escaped  discharge  in  consequence 
of  this  blunder,  and  he  surely  would  not  have 
escaped  if  Mr.  Martin  had  known  he  had  been 
composing  poetry  during  his  working  hours. 


Henry  finished  his  Hempstead  Centennial 
Ode  in  good  time  and  sent  it  to  the  judges  signed 
with  the  //('///  cfe plume, "  Bunker  Hill."  Four  weeks 
of  feverish  an>aety  followed,  during  which  he 
found  it  difficult  to  apply  himself  to  his  work. 
He  had  moments  of  the  wildest  exhilaration, 
when  he  sang  to  himself  and  scarcely  could  keep 
from  dancing ;  and  there  were  hours  of  unrest 
and  depression  during  which  he  seemed  to  him- 
self a  presumptuous  fool  who  would  be  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  be  covered  with  ridicule. 
Probably  some  of  the  greatest  men  of  New- 
England  were  trying  for  that  one  hundred  dol- 
lars; and  what  chance  would  a  half-educated 
boy  have  in  competing  with  them  ?  \\'hen 
he  thought  of  Longfellow  and  Whittier  and 
Lowell,  and  the  idea  of  his  presuming  to  have 
his  callow  rhj-mes  comjjared  with  their  mature 
and  noble  verse,  his  ears  burned  uncomfortably. 
But  then,  of  course,  he  did  not  know  that  they 

were  among  the  competitors.  He  ardently 
hojjed  that  they  had  in  this  instance  resisted 
the  temptation  of  the  hundred  dollars. 

The  fateful  evening  arrived  at  last.  The  select- 
men, the  judges,  and  as  many  of  the  citizens  as 
could  crowd  in,  were  assembled  in  the  large  town- 
hall.  It  was  understood  that  a  number  of  unsus- 
pected poets  who,  from  regard  for  the  public  weal, 
had  practiced  their  art  in  secret,  were  sitting  with 
palpitating  hearts  in  that  audience,  distracted  by 
hope  and  fear.  There  was  a  rumor,  too,  that  some 
literary  celebrity  had  sent  in  an  ode,  but  that 
his  claim  to  descent  from  a  Hempstead  family 
would  not  bear  examination.  Some  one  who 
professed  to  know  declared,  too,  that  his  ode 
would  have  had  no  chance  anyway,  as  it  did 
not  mention  a  single  Hempstead  family  by  name. 
And,  as  every  one  knew,  the  intention  was  not 
only  to  celebrate  the  founders  of  the  town,  but 
also  to  reflect  some  little  glory  upon  their  de- 
scendants of  to-day,  who  had  spent  their  lives 
wearing  holes  in  their  honorable  names. 

Henry  had  been  on  hand  early;  but,  from 
modesty,  had  taken  a  seat  in  the  middle  aisle, 
not  far  from  the  door.  The  five  judges  —  three 
clergymen,  a  doctor,  and  a  lawyer — came  march- 
ing up  the  aisle,  two  by  two,  with  the  odd  lawyer 
bringing  up  the  rear.  Henry  gazed  into  their 
faces  with  earnest  scrutiny,  but  could  discover 
nothing  which  warranted  him  in  entertaining 
any  hope.  They  looked  absolutely  non-commit- 
tal. Very  likely  they  had  given  the  prize,  without 
knowing  it,  to  Longfellow  or  Lowell ;  for  with 
the  fictitious  names  there  was  no  possibility  of 
knowing  whom  they  had  favored. 

Henry  gave  himself  up  to  despair.  He  felt 
so  unutterably  small  and  foolish.  It  was  well 
nobody  knew  that  he  had  tried  for  the  prize. 
The  eldest  clergyman  came  forward  and  invoked 
the  Divine  blessing  upon  the  assembly. 

Then  a  glee  club,  from  a  neighboring  college, 
mounted  the  platform  and  sang  a  patriotic  song, 
which  was  enthusiastically  encored.  The  eight 
collegians,  who  in  the  meanwhile  had  descended 
into  the  audience,  were  obliged  to  reassemble, 
and  sang  now : 

"  Said  the  bull-fiog  to  tlie  owl, 
Oh,  what  '11  you  have  to  drink  ?  " 

which  aroused  even  greater  enthusiasm.    When 
at  last  quiet  was  restored,  the  chairman  of  the 




committee,  a  Baptist  minister,  came  forward 
and  made  an  endless  speech  concerning  the 
significance  of  the  occasion,  the  difliculties  with 
which  the  committee  had  to  contend,  etc.  He 
possessed,  in  an  eminent  degree,  the  art  of  say- 

necks,  others  tossed  about  uneasily  in  their  seats 
and  tried  to  look  unconcerned. 

"  I  hold  in  my  hand,"  began  the  chairman, 
"  an  —  an  envelope." 

Nobody  had  been  prepared  for  so  startling  an 

ing  in  twenty  words  what  might  be  said  in  two ;     announcement.    A  few  snickered ;  some  laughed 

'•  ALL    THE    PEOPLE    TURNED    ABOUT    TO     LuOK     AT     HLNL 

and  when  he  had  finished  Henry  was  so  ex- 
hausted that  it  seemed  a  matter  of  slight  con- 
sequence to  him  who  had  won  the  prize.  His 
interest  revived  quickly,  however,  when  the 
speaker  turned  to  the  legal  member  of  the  com- 
mittee and  received  from  him  a  sealed  envelope. 
Excited  expectation  was  expressed  in  every 
countenance.     Some  rose  up  and  craned  their 

outright.     Henry  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  merely  to 
give  vent  to  his  agitation. 

"  This  envelope,"  the  chairman  continued, 
impressively,  "  contains  the  name  of  the  success- 
ful competitor  —  the  author  of  the  ode  which 
will  be  read  at  the  centennial  celebration  —  a 
week  hence.  The  committee  does  not  as  yet 
know  his,  or  her,  real  name.     The  name  —  the 




a/iiis,  if  I  may  so  express  myself —  which  he  lias 
used  is  — 'Bunker  Hill.'" 

The  name  exploded  in  Henry's  ears  like  the 
report  of  a  gun.  The  walls  whirled  about  him. 
The  audience  swam  in  a  luminous  mist.  The 
floor  billowed  under  his  feet.  He  clung  on  to 
the  bench  in  front  of  him  with  all  his  might,  so 
as  to  make  sure  that  he  was  yet  on  the  solid 

"  The  gentleman  —  the  lady  —  or  I  should 
say  —  the  poet  signing  himself  '  Bunker  Hill,'  " 
the  minister  went  on,  after  having  broken  the 
seal  of  the  envelope,  "  is  —  is  —  that  is  to  say — " 
he  hemmed  and  hawed  as  if  he  had  difficulty 
in  pronouncing  the  name,  "is  a  gentleman  — 
named  —  Henry  Craig." 

A  strange  hush  fell  upon  the  audience.  Some 
people  thought  there  must  be  a  mistake.  Henry 
Craig  —  nobody  in  the  town  knew  any  promi- 
nent person  of  that  name.  Very  likely  it  must 
be  a  stranger.  Nobody  thought  of  the  seven- 
teen-year-old boy  who  was  setting  type  in  the 
"  Bugle"  office. 

"  If  Mr.  Henry  Craig  is  present  in  this  audi- 
ence," the  reverend  gentleman  proceeded,  "will 
he  kindly  step  up  on  this  platform  and  receive 
his  reward  ?  " 

Then,  far  back  in  the  hall,  a  tall  and  slender 
lad  rose  with  a  face  pale  with  excitement:  He 
ran  his  hand  nervously  through  his  hair,  pulled 
himself  together,  and  walked  up  the  aisle.  All 
the  people  turned  about  to  look  at  him.  When 
he  had  passed  half  a  dozen  benches,  he  felt  a 
pair  of  eyes  keenly  riveted  upon  him.  He  looked 
up  and  met  Mr.  Martin's  wondering  gaze.  Sur- 
prise, pleasure,  and  also  a  shadow  of  doubt  were 

written  all  over  the  editor's  features.  But  when 
he  had  convinced  himself  that  there  was,  indeed, 
no  mistake,  up  he  sprang,  waved  his  hat  and 
cried,  "  Three  cheers  for  Henry  Craig !  " 

And  the  audience  rose  as  one  man  and  shouted 
"  Hurrah ! "  so  that  the  windows  of  the  old  town- 
hall  rattled  and  the  walls  shook. 

Henry  never  knew  how  he  reached  that  plat- 
form, received  the  hundred-dollar  bill  in  an 
envelope,  and  made  his  way  back  to  his  seat. 
His  heart  was  thumping  away  like  a  trip-hammer, 
his  blood  was  throbbing  in  his  temples,  and  there 
was  a  mist  in  his  eyes  which  made  all  things  dim. 
He  remembered  that  the  people  were  thronging 
about  him,  congratulating  him,  pressing  his 
hands,  and  a  matronly  lady  kissed  him  and  said: 
"  What  a  pity,  my  boy,  that  your  mother  did  not 
live  to  see  this  day." 


This  was  the  beginning,  but  it  was  by  no  means 
the  end,  of  Henry  Craig's  career.  In  fact,  his  ca- 
reer is  yet  at  its  meridian,  and  his  thousands  of 
readers  hope  he  has  yet  many  years  of  honor- 
able usefulness  before  him. 

When  he  had  read  his  ode  at  the  Hempstead 
Centennial,  a  number  of  the  wealthier  citizens 
became  convinced  that  a  boy  who  could  write 
so  fine  a  poem  at  seventeen  would,  if  he  was 
properly  educated,  in  time  become  an  honor 
to  his  native  town  and  State.  They  therefore 
clubbed  together,  sent  Henry  to  school,  and 
later  to  Harvard  College.  He  has  now  won  a 
fair  fame,  and  is  one  of  the  most  promising  of  the 
younger  poets  and  novehsts  of  the  United  States. 


By  M.  E.  Wilkins. 

Single-eyed  to  child  and  sunbeam. 
In  her  httle  grass-green  gown. 
Prim  and  sweet  and  fair  as  ever. 
Blue-eyed  Mary  's  come  to  town. 

Yes,  you  may,  child,  go  to  see  her, 
You  can  stay  and  play  an  hour ; 
But  be  sweet  and  good  and  gentle ; 
Blue-eyed  Mary  is  a  flower. 

Dorothy  Dot 

was  singing  as 
she  hung  the 
clothes  on  the 
"  '  ■  line.      How  the 

wild  things  tossed  and  flickered  in  the  light 
breeze !  Dorothy  had  to  laugh  at  the  tangle 
they  made  of  themselves,  as  she  went  busily  on 
witii  her  work.  And  a  pretty  picture  was  she 
with  her  golden  curls  shining  in  the  early  morn- 
ing sunbeams,  and  her  serene,  bright  face. 

"  Dorothy  Dot,  I  'm  awful  lonesome  !  "  cried 
a  voice  hidden,  half-smothered,  in  the  empty 
clothes-basket ;  and  a  small  boy  clambered  out 
of  the  basket  and  peeped  between  the  sheets 
blowing  in  the  wind. 

"  Come  to  breakfast  then,  good  little  man," 
cried  Dorothy,  whisking  up  the  basket  as  she 
started  on  a  run  to  the  cottage,  followed  closely 
by  her  little  brother,  Billy. 

Mr.  Protheroe,  the  father  of  these  children, 
had  charge  of  the  light-house  on  Crab  Island. 
He  was  a  faithful,  true  man,  respected  by  all  who 
knew  him.  As  for  his  wife,  sweet  woman,  serenely 
happy  in  her  isolated  home,  she  seldom  visited 
the  mainland.  To-day,  however,  repairs  needed 
in  the  bell-buoy,  had  taken  Mr.  Protheroe  to  the 
town  on  tlie  coast,  and  his  wife  had  accompanied 
him,  to  make  some  purchases  of  warm  clothing 
for  the  children. 

Dorothy  had  risen  to  see  her  parents  off  at 
four  o'clock ;  and  it  was  now  only  six,  and  here 
was  Billy  lonesome  already  for  his  mother.    But 

the  light-hearted  girl  knew  it  was  in  her  power 
to  keep  him  happy,  so  she  began  to  sing  a  merry 
song  as  she  set  the  bread  and  milk  on  the  table. 

The  small  white  cottage  was  built  within  the 
shadow  of  the  light-house.  More  than  once,  dur- 
ing some  unusually  fierce  storm,  the  family  had 
been  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  the  stronger  build- 
ing, fearing  that  the  cottage  might  be  swept  away. 
Behind  the  light-house,  on  the  southern  side  of 
the  island,  was  a  strip  of  herbage,  green  enough 
to  satisfy  "old  Molly,"  the  complacent  cow, 
tethered  to  a  post  in  the  center.  On  either  side 
rocks  stretched  away  to  the  sea.  The  straggling 
shape  of  the  island  broke  the  force  of  the  waves 
ere  they  reached  the  beach  on  the  mainland,  so 
that  it  was  seldom  difficult  to  navigate  the  waters 
of  the  bay. 

The  breakfast  was  evidently  much  enjoyed,  for 
peals  of  laughter  rippled  on  the  breeze.  When 
it  was  over  and  the  work  in  the  cottage  done, 
Dorothy  called  Billy  and  went  out  into  the  sun- 

What  a  lovely  day  !  Certainly  Indian  Summer 
at  last.  The  light  fall  of  snow  of  a  week  before 
had  disappeared,  and  the  sun  was  warm. 

Oh,  how  happy  she  felt  in  this  gay  sunsJiine  ! 
No  wonder  that  her  voice  rang  out  in  merry 
snatches  of  song.  Suddenly  some  of  the  bright- 
ness faded  from  her  face  and  a  thoughtful  look 
stole  there  with  somewhat  of  a  shadow.  Yes, 
there  was  one  hitherto  uru-ealized  dream  of  bliss 
in  Dorothy's  heart.  She  did  so  want  to  have  a 
"Thanksgiving  Party."  Mother  told  such  lovely 



Stories  of  parties  at  tlie  old  homestead  in  Ver- 
mont, that,  had  a  fairy  godmother  appeared  to 
Dorothy  to  ask  what  gift  she  most  desired  in 
the  world,  the  answer  would  have  come  at  once, 
"  Oh,  how  I  should  like  a  Thanksgiving  party, 
with  real  live  people,  lots  and  lots  of  children, 
and  games  and  stories  by  the  firelight !  "  She 
had  lived  all  the  fifteen  years  of  her  life  on  the 
lonely  island. 

"  Dorothy  Dot !  see  how  low  the  tide  is.  The 
'  Old  Crab  '  is  out  of  water." 

Now  the  "  Old  Crab  "  was  a  dangerous  rock, 
only  bare  at  exceptionally  low  tides,  and  it  was 
bare  that  day.  There  he  lay  with  the  one  claw 
upraised,  the  clutch  of  which  had  often  proved 
disastrous  to  vessels  before  the  Government  had 
placed  near  it  a  bell-buoy,  to  ring  unceasing 
notes  of  warning  at  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide. 

"  Let  us  go  down  to  the  buoy  and  look  for 
sea-mosses,"  cried  Dorothy,  as  she  realized  that 
the  great  rock  was  out  of  water. 

The  two  children  climbed  actively  over  the 
rocks.  Soon  they  stood  upon  the  "  Old  Crab's  " 
back,  and  even  danced  up  and  down  on  his 
massive  head. 

"  It  IS  a  dangerous  rock !  "  cried  Dorothy, 
seriously,  as  she  looked  over  the  jagged  edge. 
Then,  climbing  up  the  claw  to  the  broken  bell- 
buoy,  she  continued,  "  But  all  the  pilots  know 
of  the  '  Crab.'  Surely  they  will  avoid  it  even 
though  the  buoy  is  broken." 

"  They  can't  see  it  in  the  dark,"  cried  practical 
Billy,  as  he  floated  a  stranded  star-fish  in  a  pool 
in  the  rocks. 

"  But  there  will  be  moonlight  to-night ;  they 
can  see  the  rock  quite  well.  Still  I  do  wish  the 
bell  would  swing."  Then  she  was  hidden  behind 
the  huge  claw,  and  Billy  knew  she  was  reach- 
ing to  the  buoy  for  the  sea-mosses  which  clung 
to  Its  sides.  Presently  she  touched  the  bell  and 
made  it  ring.  How  loud  its  voice  sounded  in 
the  stillness! 

Dorothy  clambered  back  to  her  brother's  side, 
and,  setting  the  bucket  in  the  pool,  began  to 
show  him  the  mosses  she  had  gathered. 

"  It 's  Thanksgiving  to-morrow,"  said  Billy,  ir- 
relevantly. "  Are  n't  we  going  to  have  chicken- 
pie,  Dorothy  Dot  ?  " 

"  Of  course  we  are,"  assented  she;  "and  we  '11 
pretend  we  have  a  party, —  shall  we,  Billy  ?  " 

Billy  was  of  a  social  turn  of  mind,  so  he 
nodded.  "  I  want  a  boy  to  play  with,"  he  said. 
Neither  of  the  children  went  often  to  the  main- 
land, and  of  course  few  visitors  ever  came  to  the 
rocky  island. 

When  dinner-time  came,  the  children  ran 
back  to  the  cottage,  and  Dorothy  hastened  to 
set  the  table. 

But,  by  the  time  the  meal  was  finished,  the 
dazzling  blue  of  the  sea  had  changed  to  gray. 
"  \Miite  horses  "  rode  the  riotous  waves,  leaping 
in  on  the  Crab's  back,  and  over  the  claw,  break- 
ing into  foam  that  was  blown  over  the  green  by 
the  wild  wind.  Overhead,  dense  cloud-banks 
rose  from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith,  and  obscured 
the  sun;  then,  drifting  on,  they  were  swept  wind- 
ward until  the  sky  was  covered.  Sea-gulls,  beat- 
ing against  the  stiff  breeze,  flew  inland,  making 
dismal  outcry  as  they  hovered  over  the  light- 
house, or  sought  shelter  among  the  rocky  ledges 

"  I  don't  like  this,"  said  Dorothy  Dot,  as  she 
went  to  the  door  and  glanced  anxiously  round. 
Then,  as  no  warning  note  rang  from  the  bell- 
buoy,  she  scanned  the  seas  for  a  sail. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  no  ship  will  come  along  to- 
night," she  exclaimed. 

"  Dorothy,  how  can  Mother  get  home?" 

"  Oh,"  she  replied,  serenely,  "  Father  will  bring 
her  safely.  You  know  the  bay  will  not  be  rough, 
as  the  ocean  is." 

It  grew  cold  as  the  warm  sun  of  Indian  Sum- 
mer was  hidden  by  the  clouds.  Dorothy  went 
into  the  cottage,  and  an  hour  flew  fast  as  she 
began  to  mount  the  sea-mosses.  Still  she  was 
conscious  all  the  time  of  the  rising  wind  and  sea. 
At  length  she  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head  and 
went  out.  Billy  watched  her  fighting  the  wind 
as  she  ran  up  to  the  steps  of  the  light-house. 
Then  he  saw  her  look  anxiously  out  to  sea,  and 
he  was  sure  something  was  wrong  when  she 
came  running  back  to  the  cottage. 

"  Billy,  darling  Billy,  will  you  stay  here?"  she 

Billy  jumped  from  his  chair,  suspiciously. 

"  Not  without  you,  Dorothy  Dot.  I  should 
be  lonesome.  1  'm  going  with  you,  Dorothy 

And  together  they  ran  down  to  the  one 
small  sand-beach. 




"Oh,  Dorothy  Dot!"  and  "Oh,  Billy!"  ex- 
claimed the  brother  and  sister,  shocked  at  the 
sight  before  them. 

For  the  huge  claw  of  the  stony  monster  had 
once  more  done  deadly  work!  The  leaping  waves 
had  hid  the  danger,  and  the  deep  seas  surround- 
ing the  Crab  had  deceived  the  pilot,  now  the 
warning  voice  of  the  bell  was  mute.  A  ship 
riding  on  a  rising  wave  had  struck,  and,  with 

"  And  a  baby !  There  's  a  baby  in  her  arms," 
cried  Billy.  "  And  there  's  a  boy  just  my  size 
there,  too." 

The  boats  one  after  another  were  lowered  and 
broken  to  pieces  by  the  jagged  rocks.  Dorothy 
looked  around  almost  frantic,  wondering  what 
she  could  do  to  help  them.  Her  father  would 
have  rowed  out  to  the  wreck,  but  —  could  s/ic,  all 
alone  ?   She  saw  Billy's  eager  eye  glance  toward 


-  ■■•:^ 

-;  -^■.-^ 

'AS    IT    ROSE    ON    THE    NEXT    WAVE,    THE    SAILOR    MANAGED    TO    CLIMB    IN."      (SEE    NEXT    PAGE. I 

her  rudder  gone,  was  helplessly  beating  shore- 
ward among  the  jagged  rocks. 

"  Oh,  if  Father  was  only  here,"  cried  Dorothy, 
in  despair.  "  They  are  going  to  launch  the  boats, 
and  the  current  there  will  carry  them  on  the 
rocks  as  soon  as  they  reach  the  water.  Oh  !  oh  !  " 

Not  only  were  Dorothy's  fears  verified  by  the 
loss  of  the  boat  launched,  but  at  this  moment 
the  ship,  plunging  wildly,  struck  again  on  the 
claw,  and  was  jammed  between  the  head  and 
neck  of  the  monster  Crab,  and  for  a  moment 
was  still. 

"  Now  's  the  time,"  shouted  Dorothy,  waving 
her  arms  wildly  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
crew.    "  Oh,  I  see  a  woman  on  board  !  " 

the  boat,  high  on  the  beach.  With  his  help  she 
could  push  it  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  per- 
haps Father  would  soon  be  home,  and  then — 

By  this  time  her  thoughts  had  become  actions. 
Billy  was  helping  her  with  the  boat. 

"  I  'm  going  with  you,  Dorothy  Dot,"  said  he. 

The  boat  was  now  ready  to  be  launched.  The 
children  stood  on  the  beach,  however,  waiting  to 
see  what  they  could  possibly  do  to  help  the  peo- 
ple in  the  wrecked  ship.  Dorothy  knew  quite 
well  that  she  dared  not  venture  near  the  currents 
which  swept  round  the  Old  Crab. 

Just  then  a  sailor  appeared  on  the  bulwarks. 
He  had  a  rope  tied  round  his  waist,  and  it  was 
evident  that  he  meant  to  srtim  ashore.    The  chU- 


dren  watched  him  breathlessly  for  a  moment,  and 
then  they  looked  at  one  another  as  the  same 
thought  flashed  through  their  minds.  For  it 
was  quite  plain,  now,  what  they  must  do,  and 
Dorothy  pushed  at  the  boat  with  all  her  strength 
as  the  man's  head  came  above  the  waves  after 
his  plunge  from  the  ship.  He  was  a  magnificent 
swimmer,  she  could  see,  but  it  was  a  long  dis- 
tance to  the  shore,  and  the  water  was  very  cold  at 
this  season.  If  only  she  could  reach  him  before 
he  became  exhausted,  fighting  with  the  waves ! 

Billy  came  splashing  into  the  shallow  water, 
but  his  sister  was  too  quick  for  him;  she  pushed 
off,  leaving  the  little  fellow  dancing  with  rage  on 
the  beach. 

"  For  Billy  will  be  safe,  if  I  don't  get  back," 
Dorothy  was  saying  to  herself  as  she  rowed 
toward  the  sailor.  "  Father  would  wish  me  to 
do  this,  I  know,  as  he  can  not  come  himself" 

She  had  seen  her  father  risk  his  life  in  the  per- 
formance of  his  duty  too  often  to  doubt  that  he 
would  have  her  also  do  so.  She  was  not  afraid. 
True,  she  had  never  taken  the  boat  out  alone, 
in  such  a  sea  as  this,  but  then  she  knew  every 
rock  on  the  reef — knew,  too,  where  she  would 
escape  the  roughest  part  of  the  tide,  and  how 
best  to  meet  the  breakers  that  unceasingly  beat 
against  this  rock-bound  coast.  Besides  this,  she 
was  as  much  at  home  in  a  boat  as  ashore,  and 
her  father  had  trained  her  to  row  a  steady  stroke. 
Her  chief  difficulty  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  could 
barely  see,  over  the  tossing,  swirling  waves, 
whether  she  was  steering  straight  toward  the 
sailor,  who  made  his  way  on  by  diving  through 
some  of  the  breakers,  and  thus  was  frequently 
lost  to  view.  Her  boat  was  less  manageable, 
too,  than  it  would  have  been  with  some  one 
astern  to  keep  the  balance  true.  But  if  she  did 
not  see  the  sailor,  he  was  quick  to  see  her,  as  he 
came  up  on  a  wave,  and  the  people  on  board 
the  ship  cheered  as  he  struck  out  more  vigor- 
ously than  ever  in  the  direction  of  the  boat. 

Dorothy  in  the  boat  and  the  sailor  in  the  water 
together  held  the  lives  of  the  crew  in  their  hands. 
But  at  the  present  moment  all  the  girl's  anxiety 
was  merged  in  the  fear  that  the  man's  strength 
would  give  out  before  she  reached  him;  and  he 
was  only  afraid  that  she,  a  mere  child,  would  lose 
command  of  the  boat  as  it  came  further  out  into 
the  heavier  breakers. 
Vol.  XVn.-4. 


The  people  clinging  to  the  wreck,  who  in- 
cluded the  captain's  wife  and  children,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  crew,  watched  the  boat  as  it  tossed 
up  and  down,  with  agonized  expectation.  Could 
it  live  in  such  a  sea  ? 

Dorothy  gave  a  cry  of  joy  as  she  saw  two  brown 
hands  suddenly  clutch  the  stern  of  the  boat ;  and 
as  it  rose  on  the  next  wave  the  sailor  managed 
to  climb  in.  He  was  very  much  exhausted,  for 
the  water  was  bitterly  cold,  and  had  not  the 
boat  been  opportunely  driven  near  to  him,  he 
must  soon  have  given  up  all  hope  of  reaching 
shore  alive. 

Dorothy  steered  for  the  little  sand-beach, 
where  poor  Billy  was  still  rushing  up  and  down 
in  excitement.  The  waves  helped  her  now, 
though  in  extremely  rough  fashion.  Presently 
the  sailor,  recovering  his  breath,  took  one  oar, 
and  in  a  short  time  the  boat  was  beached. 

"  God  bless  you,  little  girl !  "  cried  the  man, 
as  he  ran  up  to  the  rocks  with  his  rope,  which  he 
pulled  tight  and  fastened  securely.  Upon  it 
another  sailor  crossed,  hand  over  hand,  bearing 
a  slighter  rope  which  was  fastened  to  a  basket 
on  the  wreck.  In  this  basket  two  of  the  captain's 
children  were  securely  tied,  and  by  means  of  a 
block  and  tackle  were  carried  over  on  the  large 
rope  in  safety. 

Would  there  still  be  time  to  save  the  mother 
and  baby  ?  The  sailors  looked  doubtfully  at  the 
huge  waves,  which  reared  their  mighty  crests 
high  above  the  claw,  and  broke  over  it  upon 
the  deck  of  the  vessel.  If  those  waves  should 
hft  the  ship  from  the  rock  and  set  her  adrift 
again,  all  on  board  must  be  lost. 

Dorothy  thought  she  would  never  forget 
those  anxious  minutes  while  the  woman  was 
being  brought  off  in  the  basket.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  waves,  jealous  of  losing  their  prey,  strove 
fiercely  to  outleap  one  another  as  they  surged 
and  foamed  angrily  round  the  basket. 

"  Oh,  she  must  be  drowned,  after  all,"  cried 
Dorothy.  "  Can't  we  do  anything  better  than 
this  ?  " 

The  men  did  not  answer.  Their  steady,  strong 
arms  held  the  rope  and  they  were  drawing  the 
basket  nearer  and  nearer. 

A  few  more  minutes  of  suspense,  then  a  cheer 
rose  from  the  wreck ;  the  sailors  ashore  had  hold 
of  the  basket.     Dorothy  unclasped  her  hands  to 



receive  a  tiny  baby  muffled  up  in  wraps.  She 
sat  down  on  the  beach  to  peep  at  it. 

"  It  is  ahve  !  "  she  cried,  joyfully.  "  Oh,  I  was 
afraid  it  would  be  drowned." 

"  And  the  mother  's  alive  too,  but  wet  to  the 
skin.  I  'd  take  'em  in  to  the  fire,  if  I  was  you," 
said  the  sailor. 

But  the  captain's  wife,  regardless  of  her  wet 
garments,  would  not  leave  the  beach  until  she 
could  see  her  husband  safe  at  her  side. 

The  crew  did  not  wait  to  be  carried  in  the 
basket ;  they  clambered  along  on  the  rope,  and 
at  last  only  the  captain  was  left  on  the  wreck. 

He  seemed  to  be  hunting  for  something  on 
the  decks,  but  finally  appeared  on  the  bulwarks 
with  a  bundle  tied  upon  his  breast. 

The  delay  almost  cost  him  his  Hfe,  for  when 
he  was  half-way  across,  the  rope  parted,  as  a 
huge  billow,  hfting  the  wreck,  set  it  adrift  among 
the  rocks,  at  the  will  of  the  waves.  The  sailors 
manned  the  boat,  and  pulled  toward  their  cap- 
tain with  a  will.  As  he  was  a  strong  swimmer,  he 
managed  to  keep  up  until  they  arrived  to  help 
him.  His  poor  wife  watched  and  prayed  by 
turns,  almost  beside  herself  with  anxiety. 

When  at  length  he  stood  safely  at  her  side,  he 
opened  the  bundle  on  his  breast.  Out  flew  the 
ship's  cat,  more  than  indignant  at  the  soaking 
to  which  she  had  been  subjected,  and  ungrate- 
fully scratched  her  kind  friend  as  she  wildly 
sprang  out  of  his  arms,  and  rushed  away  with 
tail  held  high  in  air. 

As  Dorothy  led  the  way  to  the  cottage,  she 
explained  that  the  absence  of  her  father  was 
the  reason  she  had  taken  the  boat  out  alone. 

It  was  growing  dark.  The  captain  pointed  to 
the  light-house. 

"  Give  us  the  keys,  daughter.  We  'U  take 
care  of  the  lamp  for  him." 

"  Oh,  Father  will  be  back,"  she  repHed,  tran- 
quilly. "  He  has  had  to  go  a  long  way  round 
to  avoid  the  currents,  or  he  would  have  been 
here  long  ago." 

The  captain  and  sailors  glanced  sadly  at  one 
another;    they  feared    the   little  maid's   father 

would  never  be  able  to  reach  the  island  ahve, 
in  so  terrible  a  sea. 

But  five  minutes  later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Proth- 
eroe  came  in.  Dorothy  never  knew  the  deadly 
peril  in  which  her  parents  had  been  during  that 
half  hour. 

Little  need  to  tell  of  the  cordial  welcome 
they  gave  their  unexpected  guests,  or  of  their 
joy  when  they  found  their  brave  Dorothy  had 
done  her  duty  so  well.  When  her  father  put 
his  hand  on  her  head,  and  said,  "  You  did  well, 
my  Dot.  God  bless  you !  "  she  felt  happy  and, 
gay  as  a  lark,  she  went  singing  about  her  work. 
All  the  praises  and  thanks  of  the  guests  seemed 
worth  nothing  in  comparison  with  such  rare 
words  from  her  reticent  father.  Billy  too  was 
in  a  gay  mood ;  he  was  busy  interviewing  the 
captain's  little  boy,  but  his  powers  of  expression 
were  a  little  modified,  as  he  had  screamed  him- 
self as  hoarse  as  a  heron  in  the  afternoon. 

The  gale  increased  in  fur)'  during  the  night, 
and  raged  throughout  Thanksgiving  Day.  No 
one  could  get  to  the  mainland,  so  Dorothy's 
desire  for  a  "  real  live  party  "  was  amply  fulfilled. 
After  dinner  the  old  folks  played  games  with  the 
children,  and  the  captain  played  Billy's  mouth- 
organ  so  musically  that  the  sailors  danced  in 
their  very  best  manner.  Once  or  twice  Dorothy 
pinched  herself  to  make  sure  all  this  was  really 
happening  :  that  it  was  not  a  dream,  nor  one 
of  mother's  lovely  stories  of  the  olden  days  at 
the  homestead. 

But  no !  The  solemn  voice  of  the  Storm  Spirit 
rang  from  the  ocean.  The  winds  howled ;  tlie 
waves  broke  into  cataracts  of  foam  over  the 
"  Old  Crab's  "  hideous  claw,  and  roared  sullenly 
amid  the  rocky  clefts  in  the  gullies. 

Yet,  indoors  there  was  the  true  Thanksgiving 
spirit  of  cheer.  Dorothy  Dot,  as  night  drew  on, 
sat  at  her  father's  feet,  the  flames  from  the  drift- 
wood fire  flashing  on  her  golden  curls,  her  rosy 
cheeks  glo^ving  with  excitement.  And  as  the 
sailors  began  to  spin  their  wonderful  yams,  she 
gave  a  sigh  of  perfect  contentment. 

Happy  "  Dorothy  Dot !  " 

A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 

By  Captain  C.  A.  Curtis,  U.  S.  A. 


I  WAS  acting-quartermaster  of  a  command 
composed  of  two  companies,  which  garrisoned 
a  log  fort  near  Prescott,  Arizona,  during  the 
years  1864  and  1865.  The  fort  was  an  inclosure 
of  some  three  hundred  feet  square,  built  of  thick 
pine-logs  set  up  vertically  in  the  ground,  with 
regular  block-house  bastions,  of  the  colonial 
period,  at  diagonal  comers;  and  it  had  huge 
gates  of  hewn  timber  that  swung  ponderously 
on  triple  iron  hinges.  The  fort  stood  on  a 
slight  elevation  overlooking  the  post  corral,  a 
structure  built  of  the  same  material  and  in  the 
same  general  manner  as  the  fort,  but  inclosing 
a  much  larger  space.  In  this  corral  were  gath- 
ered nightly  the  horses  of  the  cavalry  troop,  the 
horses  and  mules  of  the  quartermaster,  and  the 
three  hundred  head  of  cattle  and  one  thousand 
sheep  of  the  commissary. 

The  presence  of  these  animals  grazing  through 
the  days  on  the  hill-sides  and  plains  about  our 
reservation  was  a  special  and  alluring  tempta- 
tion to  the  marauding  Apaches  and  Navajos, 
and  frequent  chases  and  skirmishes  were  neces- 
sary in  order  to  protect  our  stock. 

The  garrison  consisted  of  one  company  of 
regular  infantry  and  one  troop  of  New  Mexican 
volunteer  cavalry.  The  men  composing  the 
troop  were,  with  a  few  exceptions,  Mexicans, 
speaking  the  Spanish  language,  and  using  tactics 
translated  into  that  tongue. 

The  troop  had  arrived  in  January,  after  a  long 
and  fatiguing  march  of  seven  hundred  miles, 
and  two  days  after  their  arrival  their  captain 
had  turned  over  to  me  sixteen  worn-out,  broken- 
down,  sick,  and  generally  decrepit  horses.  Ac- 
cording to  custom  in  such  cases,  I  receipted  for 
them,  and  in  due  time  ordered  them  sold  at  pub- 
lic auction  to  the  highest  bidder. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  appointed  for  the 

sale  to  take  place,  the  fifer  of  the  infantry  com- 
pany, a  neat  Irish  soldier,  known  among  his 
comrades  as  Joe  Cain,  who  acted  as  my  attend- 
ant and  a  general  guardian  of  my  belongings, 
paused  in  the  doorway,  and,  raising  his  right 
hand  to  his  cap- visor,  asked  if  he  "  could  spake 
t'  the  Liftinent  ?  "    As  I  nodded,  he  asked : 

"  Would  the  Liftinent  like  to  buy  a  fine  horse  ?  " 

"  No,  Cain.  I  have  no  use  for  two  horses, 
and  I  can  not  afford  the  expense  of  another." 

"  But  you  can  buy  this  one  for  Uttle  or  noth- 
ing, sor." 

"  How  much  ?" 

"  If  the  Liftinent  will  let  me  have  five  dollars, 
I  '11  buy  him  the  bist  horse  in  the  post." 

"  The  best  horse  in  the  post  for  five  dollars  ! 
What  kind  of  nonsense  are  you  talking,  Cain  ?  " 
and  I  turned  to  some  papers  on  my  table  which 
demanded  my  signature.  But  Cain  lingered  in 
the  doorway  at  a  respectful  "  attention,"  and 
when  I  signed  the  last  paper  his  hand  went  up 
again  to  his  visor  and  remained  there  until  I  said  : 

"  Well,  what  more  have  you  to  say  ?  " 

'■  If  the  Liftinent  will  buy  the  horse  I  spake  of, 
he  will  niver  repint  of  his  bargin.  I  've  known 
the  baste  for  tin  years,  sor, —  from  the  time  I 
jined  as  a  music  b'y  at  Fort  Craig,  sor." 

"  He  must  be  an  exceedingly  old  horse,  then," 
I  said. 

"Nobody  knows  his  age,  sor;  he's  a  vit- 
eran  ;  but  he  's  a  fine  horse,  all  the  same,  sor." 

"  But  I  do  not  need  another  horse  for  my 
duties,  Cain,  as  I  told  you  just  now ;  and  I 
should  have  to  buy  his  hay  and  grain,  and  that 
is  an  expense  I  do  not  care  to  be  put  to,  with  no 
prospect  of  a  profitable  return." 

"  There  nade  be  no  expinse,  sor.  There  is  a 
sorplus  of  forage  in  the  corral,  and  the  forage- 
master  '11  let  me  have  all  I  'm  wantin'  if  the  Lif- 
tinent will  jist  give  him  the  laste  bit  of  a  hint." 

More  to  please  a  valued  and  trustworthy  at- 
tendant than  with  any  hope  of  securing  a  good 


A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


horse,  I  gave  Cain  the  desired  five  dollars.  I 
learned,  in  further  conversation,  that  the  won- 
derful steed  he  proposed  to  buy  for  me  was  one 
of  the  lot  to  be  sold  at  auction. 

1  did  not  attend  the  sale  of  the  sixteen  horses. 
I  simply  noticed  that  the  Government  money 
account  had  increased  seventy-five  dollars  by 
the  auction,  showing  plainly  enough  that  the 
value  of  the  whole  number  was  a  little  less 
than  five  dollars  each.  A  whole  month  had 
passed,  and  I  had  entirely  forgotten  that  I  had 
given  Cain  the  five  dollars  for  the  purchase  of 
a  horse,  when  one  day,  as  I  again  sat  writing 
in  my  room,  I  heard  the  rapid  clatter  of  hoofs 
apjjroaching,  and  presently  noticed  that  a  horse 
had  stopped  outside.  I  stepped  to  the  door 
and  found  Joe  Cain  awaiting  my  arrival,  hold- 
ing by  the  halter-strap  a  fine,  large  bay  horse, 
in  good  flesh,  smooth  as  satin,  and  bright-eyed 
as  a  colt.  "Will  the  Liflinent  plaze  to  come  out 
and  inspict  his  horse  ?  "  said  Cain ;  and  then  he 
led  him  about  on  exhibirion.  I  was  pleased  to 
find  that  the  horse,  while  in  no  \vise  remarkable, 
showed  many  good  points.  In  fact,  the  animal 
was  a  great  surprise  to  me.  I  sat  down  on  a 
log  which  had  been  rejected  in  the  building  of 
the  fort,  and  looked  long  at  the  metamorphosed 
creature  before  I  spoke. 

"  So  that  is  the  horse  you  bought  for  five  dol- 
lars, is  it,  Cain  ?  "  I  began. 

"  Four  dollars  and  forty  cints,  sor.  I  bought 
the  halter  with  the  sixty  cints  that  was  lift,  sor." 

"  But  I  don't  see  how  such  a  horse  could  be 
had  for  that  money.  And  this  is  really  one  of 
those  miserable  hacks  we  sold  at  aucUon  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  else,  sor,"  said  the  delighted 
Cain,  his  face  in  a  glow  from  the  pleasure  he 
was  deriving  from  my  wonderment  and  evident 
approval  of  the  result  of  his  venture. 

"  Has  he  a  name  ?  "  1  asked. 

" '  Two- Bits,'  sor." 

"'Two-Bits' — twenty-five  cents!  —  how  did 
he  get  that  name,  Cain  ?  " 

"  He  won  it  at  Fort  Craig,  sor,  in  a  race  in 


In  answer  to  further  questions  and  after  some 
irrelevant  talk,  Cain,  having  tied  the  horse  to  a 
tree,  walked  slowly  backward  and  forward  be- 
fore me,  and  proceeded  to  give  the  history  of 
the  horse  so  far  as  he  knew  it.  and  his  reasons 

for  asking  me  to  make  the  purchase.  When  he 
went  into  the  corral  one  day,  he  said,  he  saw 
one  of  the  stable-men  kicking  and  bearing  an 
old  steed  to  make  him  rise  to  his  feet.  The 
animal  made  repeated  efforts  to  stand,  but  each 
time  fell  back  through  weakness.  Cain  ap- 
proached, and,  by  certain  saddle-marks  and  a 
peculiar  star  in  the  forehead,  recognized  an  old 
acquaintance.  He  even  insisted  that  the  old 
horse  knew  him.  From  some  knowledge  of 
horses,  picked  up  in  a  stable  during  a  wander- 
ing life  before  he  enlisted,  the  soldier  perceived, 
after  a  careful  examination,  that  the  horse  was 
not  permanently  disabled,  but  simply  suffering 
from  ill-treatment  and  neglect.  He  began  his 
care  of  the  beast  at  once,  and  as  soon  as  the 
auction  was  ordered,  he  determined  to  ask  me 
to  buy  him. 

The  first  knowledge  Cain  had  of  Two-Bits, 
was  that  the  horse  belonged  to  the  Mounted 
Rifles  and  was  with  them  at  Fort  Craig  in  New 
Mexico,  in  1859.  On  Fourth  of  July  of  that 
year,  the  officers  of  the  fort  and  the  civilians  of 
the  neighboring  ranches  got  up  a  horse-race  by 
way  of  celebrating  the  day.  The  races  were 
to  be,  one  for  American  horses,  over  an  eight- 
hundred-yards  straightaway  course,  and  one  for 
broncos,  over  a  course  of  three  hundred  yards. 
On  the  day  before  the  race,  the  first  sergeant  of 
the  Rifles  waited  upon  a  lieutenant  of  the  regi- 
ment and  requested  him  to  enter  a  "  company 
horse," — one  which  had  been  assigned  as  a 
mount  to  one  of  their  number.  The  request 
was  granted.  All  the  horses  were  to  be  ridden 
by  soldiers. 

At  two  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  Fourth 
the  horses  were  assembled  at  the  course  to  the 
west  of  the  fort,  Two-Bits  being  present  and 
mounted  by  the  boy-fifer,  Joe  Cain,  of  the  infan- 
try. The  officers  walked  around  the  "  company 
horse  "  with  considerable  curiosity,  commenting 
on  his  appearance,  and  wondering  how,  if  he 
possessed  any  merits,  he  had  escaped  their  no- 
tice up  to  this  time.  Captain  Tilford  seemed  to 
express  the  general  sentiment  of  the  officers,  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  inspection,  when  he  said, 
"  I  would  not  give  two  bits  for  that  horse's 
chance  of  winning  the  prize." 

The  race  came  off,  and  the  carefully  groomed 
and  gayly  caparisoned  horses  of  the  officers  and 

A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


civilians,  and  the  plainly  equipped  favorite  of 
the  soldiers  burst  down  the  track  in  line,  to  ar- 
rive scattered  and  blown  at  the  goal,  wnth  the 
despised  "  company  horse  "  some  three  lengths 
ahead.  And  from  that  day  the  victor  was 
known  as  "  Two- Bits." 

With  the  breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War  all 
mounted  regiments  were  made  cavalry.  This 
wiped  out  of  existence  the  two  dragoon  regi- 
ments and  the  rifle  regiment,  the  latter  being  re- 
christened  the  Third  Cavalry,  and  ordered  from 
New  Mexico  to  the  East,  for  service  in  the  field. 
Their  horses  were  left  behind,  being  turned  over 
to  the  New  Mexico  volunteer  cavalry.  Tv\-o- 
Bits  was  assigned  to  the  troop  whicli  was  then 
a  part  of  the  garrison  of  Fort  Whipple.  In  the 
march  from  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande  to  the 
valley  of  the  Rio  Colorado  he  had  succumbed 
to  Mexican  neglect  and  abuse,  and  fallen  a  vic- 
tim to  hard  usage.  And  so,  by  a  mere  chance, 
the  meeting  took  place  between  the  veteran 
steed  and  his  former  jockey  of  the  Fort  Craig 
race.  Cain  had  recognized  his  old  friend  of  five 
years  before,  and  knowing  that  he  would  not  be 
allowed  to  own  a  horse,  he  did  the  next  best 
thing, — made  me  his  owiier,  which  gave  him  the 
care  of  the  animal,  and  frequent  opportunities 
to  take  him  out  for  an  airing. 

From  this  time  on,  I  had  many  long  rides  on 
Two-Bits,  in  the  weary  and  tiresome  pursuit  of 
the  Indians,  who  never  neglected  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  unprotected  state  of  the  Territory. 
I  became  very  much  attached  to  the  horse  and 
even  took  pains  to  win  a  place  in  his  affections, 
often  being  much  surprised  at  his  wonderful  in- 
telligence and  almost  human  discernment.  He 
would  never  desert  his  rider  in  a  place  of  dan- 
ger, no  matter  what  the  temptation.  Three  or 
four  times  when  taking  him  out  for  exercise, 
Cain  had  dismounted  for  some  purpose  and 
Two-Bits  had  immediately  kicked  up  his  heels 
like  a  colt  and  trotted  back  to  his  stall  in  the 
corral.*  But  once  at  a  good  distance  from  the 
post  or  train,  or  in  a  situation  of  danger,  and 
he  would  stay  by  his  rider  when  free  to  go. 
This  statement  may  appear  doubtful  to  many, 
but  ever)'  man  who  was  stationed  at  Fort  Whip- 
ple during  the  time  Two- Bits  occupied  a  stall 
there,  believed  more  than  I  have  stated.  Two 
instances,  which  I  will  relate,  so  impressed  me 

•  To  show  that  he  was  no  respecter  of  persons,  I  m 

that  I  can  have  but  one  opinion  of  this  noble 
old  horse.  Once,  when  I  had  ridden  down  the 
valley  of  the  Rio  Verde,  some  tliirty  miles  from 
the  fort,  on  a  solitary  fishing  excursion,  I  strolled 
along  its  banks  for  several  hours,  standing  by 
pools  and  handling  a  rod,  while  a  carbine  rested 
in  my  left  elbow  and  two  revohers  hung  at  my 
waist.  I  looked  over  my  shoulders  for  Indians 
more  frequently  than  the  fish  favored  me  with 
bites.  Suddenly,  Two-Bits,  who  had  been  graz- 
ing close  by,  unpicketed,  came  trotting  down  to 
me  in  considerable  excitement.  Without  stop- 
ping to  inquire  the  cause  I  dropped  fishing-tackle 
and  basket,  mounted  and  rode  to  an  eminence, 
from  which  I  saw,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
stream,  half  a  mile  away,  a  party  of  mounted 
Apaches  who  had  not  been  visible  from  my 
fishing-place  because  of  a  fringe  of  willows.  As 
soon  as  they  discovered  me  they  whooped  and 
gave  chase;  but  the  long  legs  of  Two-Bits  made 
nothing  of  running  away  from  them,  and  I  was 
soon  far  beyond  their  reach. 

The  second  incident  occurred  when  I  was 
returning  from  a  visit  of  inspection  to  a  hay- 
camp  ten  miles  from  the  post.  I  was  riding  at 
a  walk  along  a  level  road,  which  was  skirted  on 
my  left  by  thick  sage-brush.  My  left  foot  was 
out  of  the  stirrup.  A  sudden  shot  from  cover 
cut  my  coat-collar  and  caused  the  horse  to  jump 
suddenly  to  the  right.  Having  no  support 
on  my  left,  and  being  taken  off  my  guard,  I  top- 
pled from  the  saddle  and  fell  to  the  ground,  but 
fortunately  landed  on  my  feet  and  facing  the 
ambuscade,  so  I  quickly  covered  the  spot  with 
my  rifle.  Two-Bits  did  not  stir  after  I  fell,  and 
I  walked  backwards  around  to  his  right  side, 
and  mounted  in  reverse  of  custom,  still  covering 
the  possible  enemy,  and  rode  away,  first  slowly 
and  then  at  a  run,  until  beyond  rifle-range.  Then 
I  saw  three  Apaches  rise  from  the  brush. 

Again,  when  Lieutenant  R and  myself, 

with  ten  men,  had  been  four  days  in  pursuit  of 
a  band  of  Indians  that  had  run  oflf  the  stock 
from  a  neighboring  ranch,  we  found  one  of  our 
men  unable  to  sit  in  his  saddle  from  wounds. 
We  removed  the  saddle  from  his  horse  and 
bound  him  at  length  along  the  back,  and  did 
our  best  to  make  him  as  comfortable  as  pos- 
sible. He  rode  along  quietly  for  some  time,  and 
then  asked  to  be  put  on  Two-Bits.    After  this, 

ust  admit  that  l)e  twice  did  the  same  thing  for  me. 


A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


the  horse  was  a  greater  favorite  than  ever  with 
the  men.  Not  one  of  our  party  could  have 
been  made  to  believe  that  Two-Bits  did  not 
understand  the  necessity  of  treading  gently  with 
his  sensitive  burden ;  and  I  must  admit  that 
when  our  road  lay  down  some  bowlder-strewn 
declivity,  the  horse  seemed  careful  to  select  the 
places  for  his  feet,  and  certainly  was  tediously 
slow.  I  confess  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  the 
men ;  I  believe  the  horse  fully  understood  the 
condition  of  his  charge,  and  the  necessity  of 
going  slowly  and  gently  in  rough  places.  The 
man  reached  the  post  hospital  in  safety  and  re- 
covered ;  and  from  the  day  of  his  recovery  Two- 
Bits  had  another  devoted  friend  and  guardian. 



As  the  Fourth  of  July,  1865,  approached,  in 
the  dearth  of  otlier  material  and  the  abundance 
of  horses,  the  citizens  of  Prcscott  determined 
to  ofter  a  series  of  horse  and  pony  races  as  attrac- 
tions, and  there  was  at  once  considerable  excite- 
ment in  horse  circles  in  consequence.  Officers 
of  the  garrison  caught  the  excitement  and  vied 
with  the  ranchmen  and  miners,  and  began  look- 
ing over  their  favorites  with  a  view  to  capturing 
the  various  bridles,  saddles,  etc.,  offered  as  prizes. 

One  race  was  to  be  for  American  horses  only, 
this  name  being  used  to  distinguish  the  cavalry 
horses  and  those  brought  from  the  East,  from 
the  mustangs,  Texas  ponies,  and  broncos.  The 
gait  for  all  horses  was  to  be  a  run,  under  the 
saddle,  over  distances  ranging  from  five  hundred 
to  eight  hundred  yards,  according  to  whether 
the  contestants  belonged  to  one  or  the  other 
of  the  classes  mentioned, —  the  longer  distance 
being  for  the  American  horses. 

A  few  days  after  the  conditions  of  the  race 
were  published,  Cain  proposed  that  I  should 
enter  Two- Bits  for  the  eight-hundred-yards  race, 
assuring  me  that  if  I  would  do  so  I  was  sure  to 
win  the  prize.  But  I  pooh-poohed  the  sug- 
gestion at  once,  and  even  ridiculed  Cain  for  his 
folly  in  imagining  for  a  moment  that  Two-Bits 
could  compete  with  such  steeds  as  were  already 
entered.  I  soon  found  that  I  had  plunged  the 
ambitious  fifer  into  the  depths  of  despair.  For 
several  days  he  moped  about  his  duties  in  a 

silent  and  dejected  manner,  until  his  evident 
misery  aroused  my  compassion.  So  one  morn- 
ing after  he  had  completed  the  housework  of 
my  quarters,  I  asked  him  to  remain  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  referred  to  the  subject,  which  I 
knew  had  full  possession  of  his  thoughts,  with 
the  question : 

"  You  do  not  suppose,  Cain,  that  so  old  a 
horse  as  Two- Bits  would  stand  any  chance  in 
this  race  ?  " 

"  He  would,  jist,  sor !  "  he  answered  with  em- 

"  But  he  is  very  old,  Cain.  He  must  be 
twenty,  at  the  very  least." 

"  Yis,  sor,  and  he  grows  faster  as  he  grows 
older,  sor." 

Evidently  there  was  no  use  in  arguing  against 
Two-Bits,  with  a  person  so  prejudiced  as  Cain; 
but  I  continued  : 

"  Your  love  for  your  old  favorite,  Cain,  mis- 
leads you  as  to  his  capabilities.  I  know  him  to 
be  easy  and  free  under  the  saddle,  and  the  best 
horse  I  ever  rode,  but  it  is  not  reasonable  to 
expect  him,  at  his  age,  to  beat  young  horses, 
after  all  the  ill-treatment  he  has  undergone." 

'■  I  wish  the  Liftinent  would  jist  give  me  the 
thrial  of  him,  that 's  all.  There  's  not  a  baste  in 
these  parts  can  bate  him  !  " 

"  But  you  are  not  reasonable  about  this,  Cain. 
Because  Two-Bits  won  a  race  five  years  ago, 
it  does  not  follow  that  he  can  do  so  now.  There 
is  that  fine  black  of  King  Woolsey's — what  pos- 
sible chance  is  there  that  any  horse  in  Arizona 
can  take  the  lead  of  him  ?  " 

"  That 's  jist  it,  sor.  The  consate  of  that  man 
Woolsey  nades  a  rebuke,  sor.  Two-Bits  can 
give  him  one,  asy.  I  know  the  horse,  sor.  If 
the  Liftinent  will  pardon  an  ould  soldier  for  mak- 
in'  so  bould  as  to  sit  up  an  opinion  ag'inst  his, 
I  beg  lave  to  remoind  him  that  I  have  rode  the 
winning  horse  at  miny  a  race  in  the  ould  coun- 
try and  in  this;  and  while  1  'm  free  to  admit 
that  Two-Bits  does  not  aquel  the  racin'-stock 
o'  the  quality  and  gintry,  he  is  far  beyant  any- 
thing this  side  o'  the  wather." 

"  Well,  Cain,  leave  me  now  to  consider  the 
matter,  and  call  again  in  an  hour." 

Left  alone,  I  was  not  long  in  coming  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  soldier  should  be  indulged 
in  his  wish  to  enter  Two-Bits  for  the  race.     Ac- 

A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


cordingly,  when  the  fifer  returned  for  my  de- 
cision, I  said : 

"  I  am  going  to  allow  you  to  run  him,  Cain. 
I  look  upon  the  horse  as  your  discovery.  He 
has  cost  me  literally  nothing." 

"  Thank  you,  sor,  and  you  '11  win  the  prize," 
said  Cain. 

"  No  ;  I  don't  care  for  the  prize.  I  will  pay 
the  entrance  fee,  and  if  you  win  the  race  the  prize 
shall  be  your  own." 

When  I  recalled  the  many  evidences  I  had 
had  of  Two-Bits'  speed  in  pursuit  of  Indians,  and 
in  retreats  when  the  Indian  in  turn  was  pursuer, 
and  my  life  had  depended  upon  his  gait  and  his 
endurance,  I  could  not  but  hope  he  would  win. 

On  the  day  of  the  race  I  sat,  by  no  means  a 
calm  and  disinterested  spectator,  on  a  bench 
near  the  goal.  After  the  race  of  ponies,  mus- 
tangs, and  broncos,  came  the  principal  race  — 
that  of  American  horses.  I  will  spare  the 
reader  details  of  the  race  further  than  to  say 
that,  to  the  surprise  of  everybody  but  Joe  Cain,  it 
ended  as  at  Fort  Craig.  Two-Bits  came  in  with 
dilated  nostrils  and  blazing  eyes,  amid  the  thun- 
dering cheers  of  the  soldiers,  fully  two  lengths 
ahead.  Cain  led  him  back  to  the  fort,  escorted 
the  whole  distance  by  admiring  blue-coats.  At 
the  stables,  Cain  sat  on  an  inverted  grain-ineas- 
ure  and  told  over  for  the  hundredth  time  the 
w'ay  the  horse  received  the  name  Two-Bits,  and 
how  he  had  discovered  the  old  horse,  friend- 
less and  broken  down,  in  the  Whipple  corral, 
and  having  built  him  up  to  his  present  beau- 
tiful proportions,  had  once  more  ridden  him  to 

I  have  related  the  foregoing  incidents  in  an 
attempt  to  interest  the  reader  in  the  personality 
of  my  horse.  He  is  the  hero  of  the  story  — 
the  men  are  only  accessories.  The  incident  to 
which  all  this  is  a  preface  must  have  a  chapter 
by  itself. 



In  the  fall  of  the  year  1865,  the  Indian 
troubles  became  so  serious  that  only  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  could  we  maintain  our  com- 
munications with  the  outer  world.  Every  little 
while  an  express-rider  would  fail  to  make  his 

appearance  when  due,  and  an  expedition  sent 
in  search  of  him  often  found  his  body  in  the 
road,  in  some  rugged  defile  or  thick  chaparral, 
stripped,  scalped,  and  disfigured,  the  contents 
of  the  express-pouch  scattered  for  yards  around, 
all  letters  broken  open,  and  the  illustrated  papers 
torn  into  shreds,  while  the  newspapers  were  sim- 
ply thrown  aside.  The  peril  became  so  great 
in  time  that  single  riders  could  not  be  hired  for 
the  service,  and  at  last  only  cavalrymen  in  par- 
ties of  five  were  sent  on  this  dangerous  duty. 
Even  numbers  was  not  always  a  protection,  as 
I  once  found  when,  sent  to  look  for  a  missing 
express,  I  discovered  all  the  men  dead  together. 

On  the  20th  of  October  a  dispatch  was  re- 
ceived with  accompanying  instructions  that  it 
should  be  forwarded  without  delay  to  Santa  Fe. 
Accordingly,  I  advertised  for  an  express-rider, 
offering  the  highest  pay  allowed  for  the  service. 
The  route  on  the  northeast  was  not  considered 
to  be  so  dangerous  as  those  lying  to  the  east, 
south,  or  west.  Still  there  was  no  response  to 
my  offer,  and  I  began  to  consider  the  expediency 
of  asking  for  a  detail  from  the  cavalry,  when  a 
proposition  came  from  an  unexpected  quarter. 
The  man  whom  I  have  before  mentioned  as 
having  been  wounded  during  an  Indian  expe- 
dition and  brought  to  the  fort  on  the  back  of 
Two-Bits,  came  into  my  office,  and  offered  to 
carry  the  dispatch,  provided  I  would  let  him 
ride  Two- Bits. 

This  man's  name  was  Porter.  He  was  a 
Londonderry  Irishman  by  birth  and  was  now 
sergeant  in  the  infantry  company.  Years  after- 
wards we  learned  that  he  was  of  gentle  descent, 
and  a  graduate  of  Edinburgh  University.  He 
was  a  handsome,  soldierly  fellow,  of  refined 
features,  gentlemanly  bearing,  good  height,  and 
undoubted  courage.  He  entered  my  office,  as 
1  before  stated,  and  said  he  would  take  the 
mail  to  Fort  Wingate  if  I  would  lend  him 

"  But  Two-Bits  is  my  private  property,  Ser- 
geant, and  is  not  subject  to  such  service,"  I 

"  I  know  that,  sir;  but  he  has  many  qualities 
which  fit  him  for  it." 

"  Not  more  than  half  a  dozen  other  horses  in 
the  corral,  Sergeant." 

"  No  horse  has  just  his  qualities,  sir.     He  is 

A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


especially  fitted  for  dangerous  service  such 
as  this.  He  is  fleet,  he  will  not  whinny  nor 
do  anything  to  attract  attention  in  an  Indian 
country.  He  will  not  desert  his  rider  if  turned 
loose,  and  he  will  not  be  stampeded  if  his  rider 
sleeps  while  he  grazes." 

"  You  seem  to  liave  studied  his  character 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  know  Two-Bits  very  well ;  but 
not  better  than  yourself,  or  most  of  the  men  of 
the  garrison.  He  is  a  remarkable  horse.  He  is 
well  drilled  and  he  is  very  intelligent.  He  always 
seems  to  understand  what  is  expected  of  him." 

"  But  really.  Sergeant,  I  do  not  like  to  let 
him  go  on  such  a  trip.  I  fear  I  should  never 
see  him  again.  The  trip  would  be  a  tremendous 
strain  upon  the  old  horse." 

"  He  shall  have  the  tenderest  care,  sir.  I 
will  treat  him  as  he  deserves." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  that.  Sergeant.  He 
would  be  treated  well  by  all  of  our  men.  In 
fact,  he  is  always  made  a  pet  of  by  every  one. 
I  will  think  of  it.     Call  again  later." 

After  Sergeant  Porter  went  out,  I  walked  over 
to  the  quarters  of  the  commanding  officer  and 
told  him  of  the  proposition.  He  at  once  fell  in 
with  the  plan  and  advised  me  to  let  the  horse 
go.  He  said  the  horse  could  not  be  in  better 
hands,  and  that  doubtless  he  would  go  through 
safely,  without  fatigue,  and  return  to  me  in  a  few 
weeks.  He  said  he  would  convene  a  board  of 
officers  to  appraise  the  horse,  so  that  if  he  should 
be  lost  I  could  put  in  a  claim  for  reimbursement. 
I  agreed,  and  next  day  the  board  sat  and  ap- 
praised the  value  of  my  five-dollar  horse  at 
nearly  $200  in  gold. 

On  the  morning  of  the  25th  of  October,  Ser- 
geant Porter,  mounted  on  Two-Bits,  rode  out  of 
Fort  Whipple,  amid  the  hearty  good  wishes  and 
handshakes  of  men  and  officers.  He  carried 
a  mail  pouch  weighing  twenty  pounds,  an  over- 
coat and  three  blankets,  a  carbine  and  two  re- 
volvers, and  six  days'  rations. 

The  adventures  of  horse  and  rider,  after  we 
saw  them  disappear  behind  the  "  red  rocks,"  five 
miles  below  the  fort,  were  related  to  me  in  1867, 
at  Fort  Sumner,  New  Mexico,  by  Porter,  who 
had  in  the  mean  time  been  appointed  a  lieuten- 
ant in  the  army.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  he 
started  on  his  journey. 

For  three  days  the  ride  was  without  incident 
worth  relating.  On  the  fourth  he  did  not  leave 
his  stopping-place  until  one  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. At  two  o'clock  he  found  himself  on  the 
crest  of  a  range  of  hills  overlooking  a  plain 
which  extended  right  and  left  almost  to  the 
horizon,  and  in  front  at  least  twenty  miles,  to 
the  broken  and  hilly  country  beyond.  It  was  as 
level  as  the  surface  of  a  lake.  From  the  edge 
of  the  plain  stretched  the  nan-ow  thread  of  the 
Military  road,  straight  across  to  the  foot-hills 
beyond.  The  road  down  the  declivity  to  the 
plain  being  rough  and  stony,  the  sergeant  dis- 
mounted and  followed  his  horse,  allowing  him 
to  pick  his  way  and  take  his  own  gait.  When 
he  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  range,  he  noticed 
that  there  lay  between  him  and  the  plain,  and 
parallel  to  its  edge,  a  long  low  ridge.  He  halted 
in  the  ravine  formed  by  the  ridge  and  the  foot- 
hills to  tighten  girth  and  straps  and  readjust  his 
luggage  before  taking  the  road  over  the  plain. 
While  engaged  in  this  operation,  Porter  noticed 
that,  at  the  point  where  he  stood,  the  road 
divided  into  two;  these  passed  over  the  ridge 
a  hundred  yards  apart,  descended  on  the  other 
side,  and  met  again  in  one  road  about  a  mile 
out  on  the  plain.  The  reason  for  this  division 
was  that  the  left-hand  road  had  become  badly 
gullied  in  one  of  the  rare  and  violent  rainfalls 
peculiar  to  that  region,  and  the  wagoners  had 
made  a  new  one  to  avoid  its  roughness. 

Finishing  the  adjustment  of  the  saddle  and  its 
attached  parcels,  the  sergeant  still  postponed  re- 
mounting, and  followed  his  horse  slowly  up  the 
ridge,  leaving  the  choice  of  roads  to  the  animal, 
it  being  a  matter  of  indifference  to  a  horseman 
whether  the  road  was  gullied  or  not.  Two-Bits 
took  the  left-hand  road,  and  moved  leisurely  up 
the  slope,  raising  his  head  high  as  he  approached 
the  crest  to  look  beyond  it.  Suddenly  he  stopped 
and  stood  perfectly  rigid,  his  ears  set  forward 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  some  object,  evidendy 
in  alarm.  Porter  crept  carefully  forward  and 
looked  beyond  the  ridge.  Behind  a  mass  of 
granite  bowlders  which  skirted  the  left  of  the 
other  road,  four  Indian  ponies  could  be  seen 
picketed.  Evidendy  their  riders  were  among 
the  rocks  watching  for  the  express-rider  they 
had  seen  descending  from  the  range.  They 
naturally  supposed  that  he  would  pass  along  the 


A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


usually  traveled  road.  Nothing  but  the  acci- 
dent that  Two-Bits  took  the  old  road  prevented 
the  sergeant  from  falling  into  the  ambuscade 
and  ending  his  life  there.  From  the  old  road 
the  ponies  were  plainly  visible  in  a  nook  among 
the  bowlders ;  from  the  newer  road  they  could 
not  have  been  seen. 

The  sergeant  backed  Two-Bits  sufficiently  to 
put  him  out  of  sight  of  the  Indians.  When  all 
was  ready,  Porter  patted  the  old  horse  affection- 
ately on  the  neck  and  said,  "  Now,  old  fellow, 

he  could  reload  without  a  second's  delay,  and, 
aiming  carefully,  fired,  killing  the  pony  instantly. 
He  reloaded,  and  as  an  Indian  sprang  from 
cover  to  see  where  the  shot  came  from,  he  caught 
the  second  bullet  and  fell  across  the  dead  pony. 
Not  another  Indian  showed  himself  until  Porter 
was  well  out  upon  the  plain ;  then  he  heard 
the  shrill  staccato  of  the  Navajo  war-whoop, 
and  glancing  backward  over  his  shoulder  saw 
three  Indians  pursuing  at  the  top  of  their  ponies' 
speed.     Two-Bits  threw  himself  into  the  task 


"'will    the     I.IFTINENT    I'LAEE    TO    COME    OLT    AND    LVSPICT    HIS     HORSE?' 

everything  depends  upon  your  legs."  Porter 
always  maintained  that  Two-Bits  understood 
the  coming  struggle  as  fully  as  he  did  himself 
When  all  was  completed,  Porter  mounted  and 
rode  slowly  over  the  ridge  and  slowly  down  the 
opposite  slope.  He  was  anxious  that  the  Indians 
should  not  discover  him  until  he  should  be  well 
beyond  the  gullies  in  the  road.  These  he  passed 
safel\-,  and,  as  he  rose  to  the  level  ground  beyond, 
he  noticed  that  one  of  the  mustangs  in  the  bowl- 
ders was  holding  his  head  high,  watching  his 
movements.  It  occurred  to  the  sergeant  that 
to  kill  a  pony  would  be  equal  to  killing  an  In- 
dian. He  took  a  cartridge  in  his  palm,  so  that 
Vol.  XVII.— 5. 

of  running  away  from  the  mustangs  with  all  the 
elasticity  and  grace  that  had  distinguished  him 
on  the  racecourse,  and  had  alwa}'s  led  to  vic- 
tory. He  settled  down  to  a  long  and  steady 
pace  which  promised  soon  to  leave  his  pursuers 
far  behind.  The  soldier  was  beginning  to  con- 
gratulate himself  upon  his  wisdom  in  insisting 
upon  having  Two-Bits  for  his  service.  With  every 
spring  the  old  horse  seemed  to  be  fast  widen- 
ing the  distance  between  the  Indians  and  their 
intended  victim ;  and  this  continued  for  about 
half  a  dozen  miles,  when  Porter  reluctantly  ob- 
served that  no  further  change  in  his  favor  was 
evident.     In  fact,  it  soon  became  evident  that 


A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


the  Navajos  were  slowly  and  surely  closing  up 
on  him. 

This  was  not  at  all  strange.  Two- Bits  was  an 
American  horse,  accustomed  in  garrison  and 
camp  to  his  twelve  pounds  of  grain  daily;  a 
kind  of  horse  that  will  invariably  run  down  in 
flesh  on  a  grazing  diet.  The  mustangs  lived  en- 
tirely upon  grass  and  grew  fat  and  kept  in  good 
condition  even  when  subjected  to  the  roughest 
usage.  Two-Bits  was  heavily  loaded  and  had 
tasted  no  grain  for  four  days ;  the  mustangs  were 
lightly  mounted  and  filled  with  their  accustomed 
forage.  Two-Bits  was  old  and  the  mustangs  were 
young.  The  odds  were  decidedly  against  the 
veteran  war-horse ;  but  he  kept  on  with  his  long 
l)0werful  gallop,  while  the  Indian  ponies  came 
on  with  a  short,  quick,  tireless  clatter  which 
never  changed  its  cadence  and  threatened  to 
overtake  the  sergeant  before  he  could  gain  the 
shelter  of  the  hills,  still  many  miles  away. 

The  flight  and  pursuit  over  the  plain  had  to 
be  confined  closely  to  the  road.  Outside  of  the 
track  the  vegetation  would  seriously  wound  and 
disable  an  animal  attempting  to  go  through  its 
spiked  obstructions. 

At  last  an  arrow  flew  between  Porter's  shoul- 
der and  ear.  Turning  in  his  saddle,  he  fired, 
breaking  the  leading  Navajo's  arm  and  causing 
him  to  fall  into  the  road,  while  his  riderless  pony 
stopped  by  the  wayside  and  began  at  once  to 
graze,  .-^s  the  sergeant  dropped  his  carbine  by 
his  right  side  to  place  a  new  cartridge  in  the 
breech,  an  arrow  struck  his  right  hand,  his  fingers 
relaxed,  and  the  precious  weapon  dropped  into 
the  road.  He  could  not  stop  to  recover  it, — it 
would  be  useless  with  a  badly  wounded  hand, — 
so  he  plunged  wearily  on,  looking  at  the  broken 
fingers  and  flowing  blood,  with  his  first  serious 
misgivings.  His  chances  of  getting  out  of  this 
scrape  alive  seemed  desperate  indeed.  With  his 
skill  as  a  marksman,  he  had  all  along  thought 
that  he  should  soon  pick  oft"  all  his  enemies ;  but 
with  no  carbine  and  a  useless  right  hand  the 
chances  were  much  against  him. 

Resolving,  like  a  brave  man,  to  die  game. 
Porter  hastily  bound  his  handkerchief  about  his 
wounded  hand,  and  drew  a  revolver  in  his  left. 
Turning,  he  fired  shot  after  shot,  but  without 
effect  except  to  keep  the  two  Indians  hanging 
over  the  sides  of  their  horses,  until,  conceiving 

a  contempt  for  his  inaccurate  aim,  they  sat  up- 
right, and  sent  arrow  after  arrow  toward  him. 
The  distance  was  still  too  great  for  these  primi- 
tive missiles  to  be  fully  eftective,  but  two  pierced 
his  shoulders,  and  the  shafts  of  three  could  be 
seen  switching  up  and  down  in  the  quarters  of 
Two-Bits  as  he  galloped  wearily  on.  A  lucky 
shot  caused  one  of  the  Indians  to  rein  up  sud- 
denly, dismount,  and  .sit  down  by  the  roadside. 
The  last  Navajo  kept  on,  however,  with  all  the 
eagerness  with  which  he  began  the  chase  ap- 
parently unabated,  and  soon  he  wounded  Por- 
ter again,  and  this  time  along  the  ribs.  In  very 
desperation,  the  sergeant  then  suddenly  turned 
his  horse  to  the  right-about,  bore  down  quickly 
upon  the  Indian  pony,  and  before  his  rider  had 
time  to  recover  from  his  surprise  at  the  unex- 
pected attack  he  sent  his  last  remaining  shot 
crashing  into  the  brain  of  the  mustang.  The 
little  horse  swerved  out  of  the  track  and  fell 
headlong  into  a  cactus,  and  before  the  Indian 
could  extricate  himself  Two-Bits  and  his  rider 
had  wheeled  and  were  out  of  arrow-range. 

The  pursuit  was  at  an  end,  and  it  would  no 
doubt  be  pleasant  to  the  reader  of  this  story  of 
a  horse  if  I  could  say  that  the  sergeant  and 
Two-Bits  were  now  safe.  But  they  were  very 
far  from  safe.  When  well  beyond  any  chance 
of  pursuit  from  the  last  and  ponyless  Navajo, 
Porter  slid  painfully  from  his  saddle  to  examine 
into  his  own  and  his  horse's  injuries.  No  arrows 
were  left  in  his  own  body,  but  he  was  badly 
lacerated  and  had  bled  profusely,  until  he  was 
scarcely  able  to  stand.  The  horse  had  received 
seven  wounds,  and  three  arrows  were  still  stick- 
ing in  his  flesh.  These  were  not  deeply  in,  and 
were  easily  removed ;  but  a  long  cut  along  the 
ribs,  from  hind  to  fore  quarters,  had  torn  the 
skin  badly  and  still  bled  profusely.  Porter 
bound  up  his  own  wounds  with  fair  success, 
but  he  could  do  nothing  for  the  horse.  Neither 
could  he  relieve  Two-Bits  by  walking.  The 
horse  refused  a  ration  of  hard  bread  offered 
him,  and  there  remained  nothing  to  be  done 
but  for  the  sergeant  to  drag  himself  painfully 
into  the  saddle  and  resume  his  journey.  Re- 
mounting was  not  accomplished  without  great 
difticulty,  and  only  by  the  aid  of  a  date-tree 
which  forked,  conveniently,  two  feet  from  the 
ground.     Speed  was  now  out  of  the  question, 

A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


and  the  horse  simply  hmped  along  at  a  feeble 
walk.  The  excitement  of  the  chase  was  over, 
and  the  nerves  of  both  man  and  beast  had  lost 
their  tension. 

When  the  pursuit  ended,  Porter  found  him- 
self near  the  border  of  the  plain  from  which  the 

horse  in  a  desert  country  without  water  might 
unfit  him  for  further  eftbrt,  and  without  a  horse 
there  was  no  hope  for  the  man  to  pass  over  the 
long  remaining  distance  to  Wingate.  It  was  this 
very  hopelessness  which  caused  the  soldier  to 
press  on  into  the  increasing  darkness,  putting 

LAST     DA^H. 

road  led  up  into  a  rugged  and  hilly  country,  off  a  halt  which   he   felt   must  be   final.     Still 

and  it  was  already  growing    toward    twilight,  creeping  slowly  along,  he   at  last  surmounted 

The   miles   stretched    wearily    out,    and    there  a  height  overlooking  a  narrow  valley,  and  on 

seemed  no  better  prospect   than   to   dismount  the  other  side  saw  a  bright  fire  burning,  which 

and  try  to  find  rest,  even  though  rest  for  the  occasionally  disappeared  and  reappeared  as  if 


A    STORY    OF    A    HORSE. 


persons  were  passing  before  it.  The  hopes  ot 
the  soldier  were  at  once  revived  at  the  prospect 
of  reaching  friends  and  assistance,  but  the  hopes 
were  as  quickly  depressed  by  the  fear  that  the 
fire  might  be  that  of  an  enemy, —  probably  a 
party  of  Navajos,  for  this  was  their  country. 
But  even  a  foe  might  prove  to  be  a  friend  to 
one  in  his  plight,  so  he  pressed  on. 

Two-Bits  was  so  weak  that  he  hardly  more 
than  moved,  and  hours  elapsed  before  the  valley 
was  crossed  and  he  brought  his  rider  near  the 
fire.  He  was  ascending  the  hillside  on  which  the 
fire  was  burning  when  the  rattle  of  halter-chains 
over  feed-bo.xes — a  sound  familiar  to  a  soldier's 
ears  —  came  plainly  through  the  evening  air, 
and  Porter  knew  that  he  was  near  a  Go\ern- 
ment  train.  With  the  welcome  sound  he  grew 
faint  and  fell  from  the  saddle  to  the  ground 
senseless.  Two- Bits  kept  on  into  camp,  ap- 
proached the  camp-fire,  looked  into  the  faces  of 
the  guard  which  sat  about  its  cheerful  blaze, 
turned,  as  if  to  retrace  his  steps,  staggered,  fell, 
and  died. 

The  unexpected  appearance  of  a  horse,  sad- 
dled and  bridled,  a  mail-bag  strapped  on  his 
back,  his  saddle  covered  with  blood,  his  body 
wounded  in  half  a  dozen  places,  his  sudden  fall 
and  tleath,  started  the  whole  camp  into  activity. 
The  militar)-  escort  was  soon  under  arms,  horses 
and  mules  were  quickly  saddled,  and  lanterns 
were  soon  hurrying  down  the  road.  The  search- 
ers had  not  far  to  go  before  they  came  upon  the 
sergeant,  lying  apparently  lifeless.  He  was  taken 
into  camp,  tenderly  cared  for,  and  next  day  taken 
to  Fort  Wingate,  the  place  for  which  the  train 
was  bound. 

Was  Two-Bits  left  to  be  food  for  the  coyotes  ? 
No.  Sergeant  Porter  told  his  story,  and  the 
command  being  of  the  company  stationed  at 
Fort  Craig  at  the  time  of  the  first  race  men- 
tioned in  these  columns,  it  was  not  difficult  to 
find  a  few  sympathetic  old  soldiers  who  yielded 
to  the  earnest  request  of  the  wounded  express- 
rider  and  buried  his  equine  friend  and  comrade 
deeply,  and  heaped  a  mound  of  stones  over  his 


By  Walter  Camp, 

The  rules  governing  American  foot-ball  are 
an  outgrowth  or  development  of  the  English 
Rugby  foot-ball  game,  the  very  name  of  which 
at  once  recalls  to  every  reader  the  well-beloved 
"Tom  Brown." 

The  credit  of  introducing  these  rules  among 
our  colleges  belongs  entirely  to  Harvard,  who 
had  learned  them  from  the  Canadians  and  were 
at  the  outset  won  by  the  superior  opportunities 
offered  by  the  new  game  for  strategy  and  gen- 
eralship as  well  as  for  clever  individual  playing. 
After  Harvard  had  played  for  a  year  or  two  with 
our  northern  neighbors,  Yale  was  persuaded  to 
adopt  these  English  rules,  and  in  1876  the  first 
match  between  two  American  collesre  teams  un- 

der the  Rugby  Union  rules  was  played.  Since 
that  time  the  code  has  undergone  many  changes, 
the  greater  number  being  made  necessary  by  the 
absolute  lack  of  any  existing  foot-ball  lore  or 
tradition  on  American  soil.  The  English  game 
was  one  of  traditions.  "  What  has  been  done 
can  be  done ;  what  has  not  been  done  must  be 
illegal,"  answered  any  question  which  was  not 
fully  foreseen  in  their  laws  of  the  game. 

For  the  first  few  years,  our  college  players 
spent  their  time  at  conventions  in  adding  rules 
to  setde  vexed  problems  continually  arising,  to 
which  the  English  rules  offered  no  solution.  In 
this  way  the  rules  rapidly  multiplied  until  the 
number  was  quite  double  that  of  the  original 




code.  Then  followed  the  process  of  excision, 
and  many  of  the  old  English  rules  which  had 
become  useless  were  dropped.  During  the  last 
few  years  the  foot-ball  law-makers  have  changed 
but  two  or  three  rules  a  year.  The  method  of 
making  alterations  has  also  been  perfected. 

In  order  to  avoid  the  petty  dissensions  inci- 
dent to  contests  so  recent  that  the  wounds  of 
defeat  were  yet  tender,  an  Advisory  Committee 
of  graduates  has  been  appointed  and  all  altera- 
tion of  rules  is  in  their  hands.  They  meet  once 
a  year  to  propose  any  changes  that  appear  to 
them  necessary.  They  submit  such  propositions 
to  the  Intercollegiate  Association  for  discussion 
and  approval.  Provided  this  Association  ap- 
prove of  them,  they  are  then,  by  the  Secretary 
of  the  Advisory  Committee,  incorporated  in  the 
rules  for  the  following  season.  In  case  the  Asso- 
ciation take  exception  to  any,  they  are  returned 
to  the  Advisory  Board,  and  if  they  then  receive 
the  votes  of  four  out  of  the  five  members,  they 
become  laws  in  spite  of  the  disapproval  of  the 
Association.  This  has  never  yet  occurred,  nor 
has  there  been  anything  to  mar  the  harmony 
existing  between  the  two  bodies. 

No  change,  then,  is  possible  unless  suggested 
by  a  body  of  men,  not  immediate  participants 
in  the  sport,  who  have  had  the  benefits  of  past 
experience.  This  most  excellent  state  of  afiairs 
was  the  result  of  suggestions  emanating  from 
an  informal  conference  held  some  years  ago  in 
New  York,  at  which  were  present  members  of 
the  Faculties  of  Harvard,  Princeton,  and  Yale. 
These  gentlemen  were  at  that  time  carefully 
watching  the  growth  of  the  sport,  and  were  pre- 
pared to  kill  or  encourage  it  according  to 
its  deserts.  Their  suggestions  have  rendered 
most  substantial  aid  to  the  game,  and  made 
its  law-making  the  most  conservative  and  thor- 
oughly well  considered  of  all  rules  governing 
college  contests. 

"  How  does  the  English  game  differ  from  the 
American  ?  "  is  a  very  common  question,  and  in 
answering  it  one  should  first  state  that  there  are 
two  games  in  England, —  one  "  the  Rugby  " 
and  the  other  "  the  Association."  These  dif- 
fer radically,  the  Association  being  more  like 
the  old-fashioned  sport  that  existed  in  this 
country  previous  to  the  introduction  of  the 
Rugby.     In  the  Association  game  the  players 

can  not  run  with  the  ball  in  their  hands  or 
arms,  but  move  it  rapidly  along  the  ground 
with  their  feet  —  "dribble  the  ball,"  as  their 
expression  has  it.  Of  course,  then,  a  com- 
parison between  our  game  and  the  Associ- 
ation is  out  of  the  question.  To  the  Rugby 
Union,  however,  our  game  still  bears  a  striking 
resemblance,  the  vital  point  of  difference  being 
the  outlet  to  the  "  scrimmage  "  or  "  down."  In 
the  English  game,  when  the  ball  is  held  and  put 
down  for  what  they  call  a  '•  scr//mmage,"  both 
sides  gather  about  in  a  mass,  and  each  endeav- 
ors by  kicking  the  ball  to  drive  it  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  opponents'  goal.  Naturally,  there  is 
a  deal  of  pushing  and  hacking  and  some  clever 
work  with  the  feet,  but  the  exact  exit  of  the  ball 
from  the  "  scrummage  "  can  not  be  predicted  or 
anticipated,  ^^'hen  it  does  roll  out,  the  man 
who  is  nearest  endeavors  to  get  it  and  make  a 
run  or  a  kick.  The  American  scrimmage,  while 
coming  direcdy  from  the  English  play,  bears 
now  no  similarity  to  it.  Instead  of  an  indis- 
criminate kicking  struggle  we  have  the  snap- 
back  and  quarter-back  play.  The  snap-back 
rolls  the  ball  back  with  his  foot ;  the  quarter 
seizes  it  and  passes  it  to  any  man  for  whom  the 
ball  is  destined  in  the  plan  of  the  play.  In  other 
respects,  with  the  exception  of  greater  liberties 
in  assisting  a  runner,  it  would  not  be  a  very 
difficult  task  to  harmonize  our  game  with  the 

While  the  game  has  in  the  last  ten  years  grown 
rapidly  in  popular  favor,  it  woukl  not  be  fair  to 
suppose  that  all  of  the  ten  or  fifteen  thousand 
spectators  who  gather  to  witness  one  of  the  great 
matches  have  clearly  defined  ideas  of  the  rules 
which  govern  the  contest.  Many  of  the  tech- 
nical terms  they  hear  used  are  also  Greek  to 
them,  and  it  would  undoubtedly  add  to  their 
enjoyment  of  the  game  to  give  a  few  clues  to 
chief  plays  of  interest. 

While  awaiting  the  advent  of  the  players, 
one  looks  down  on  the  field  and  sees  a  rect- 
angular space  a  little  over  a  hundred  yards 
long  and  a  trifle  more  than  fifty  yards  wide, 
striped  transversely  with  white  lines,  which  give 
it  the  aspect  of  a  huge  gridiron.  These  lines 
are  five  yards  apart,  and  their  only  purpose  is  to 
assist  the  referee  in  judging  distances.  There  is 
a  rule  which  says  that  in  three  attempts  a  side 




must  advance  the  ball  five,  or  take  it  back  twenty- 
yards  under  penalty  of  surrendering  it  to  the 
opponents.  The  field  is  therefore  marked  out 
with  these  five-yard  lines,  by  means  of  which 
the  referee  can  readily  tell  the  distance  made  at 
each  attempt.  The  gallows-like  arrangements  at 
the  ends  of  the  field  are  the  goal  posts,  and  in 
order  to  score  a  goal  the  ball  must  be  kicked 
over  a  cross-bar  extending  between  the  posts  by 
any  kind  of  a  kick  e.xcept  a  "punt."  That  is, 
it  must  be  by  a  "drop  kick,"  which  is  made  by 
letting  the  ball  fall  from  the  hand  and  kicking 
it  as  it  rises  from  the  ground ;  by  a  "  place 
kick,"  which  is  from  a  position  of  rest  on  the 
ground ;  or  finally  even  from  a  rolling  kick.  A 
"punt"  is  a  kick  made  by  dropping  the  ball 
from  the  hand  and  kicking  it  before  it  strikes 
the  ground,  and  such  a  kick  can  under  no  cir- 
cumstances score  a  goal.  Scoring  is  only  pos- 
sible at  the  ends  of  the  field,  and  all  the  work 
one  sees  performed  in  the  middle  of  the  ground 
is  only  the  struggle  to  get  the  ball  to  the  goal. 

There  are  two  ways  in  which  points  may  be 
made :  By  kicking  the  ball,  as  above  described, 
over  the  goal,  and  by  touching  it  down  behind 
the  goal  line.  A  "safety  "  is  made  when  a  side 
are  so  sorely  pressed  that  they  carr\'  the  ball 
behind  their  own  goal  line,  and  not  when  it  is 
kicked  there  by  the  enemy.  In  the  latter  case, 
it  is  called  a  "  touchback,"  and  does  not  score 

"  down."  Such  a  play  entitles  his  side  to  a  "  try- 
at-goal,"  and  if  they  succeed  in  kicking  the  ball 
over  the  bar,  then  the  goal  only  scores  and  not 
the  touchdown;  but  if  they  miss  the  try,  they 
are  still  entitled  to  the  credit  of  the  touchdown. 
A  goal  can  also  be  made  without  the  interven- 
tion of  a  touchdown ;  that  is,  it  may  be  kicked 
direct  from  the  field,  either  from  a  drop  kick  or 
a  place  kick,  or  even  when  it  is  rolling  or  bound- 
ing along  the  ground.  This  latter,  however,  is 
very  unusual.  In  the  scoring,  the  value  of  a  field 
kick  goal  is  only  five,  of  a  goal  kicked  from 
a  touchdown,  six;  if  the  touchdown  does  not 
result  in  a  goal  it  counts  four,  and  a  safety  by 
the  opponents  counts  the  other  side  two. 

When  the  game  begins,  the  ball  is  placed  in 
the  center  of  the  field  and  put  in  play,  or  kicked 
off,  as  it  is  termed,  by  the  side  which  has  lost 
the  choice  of  goal.  From  that  time  forward, 
during  forty-five  minutes  of  actual  play,  the  two 
sides  struggle  to  make  goals  and  touchdowns 
against  each  other.  Of  the  rules  governing  their 
attempts  to  carry  the  ball  to  the  enemies'  quarters, 
the  most  important  are  those  of  off  side  and  on 
side.  In  a  general  way  it  may  be  said  that  "  off 
side  "  means  between  the  ball  and  the  oppo- 
nents' goal,  while  "  on  side  "  means  between  the 
ball  and  one's  own  goal.  A  player  is  barred 
from  taking  part  in  the  play  or  handling  the 
ball,  when  in  the  former  predicament.     When  a 


either  for  or  against  the  side  making  it.  A 
"touchdown  "  is  made  when  a  player  carries  the 
ball  across  his  oppoueiits'  goal  line  and  there  has 
it  do\vn,  /.  <?.,  either  cries  "  down  "  or  puts  it  on 
the  ground  ;  or  if  he  secures  the  ball  after  it  has 
crossed  his  opponents'  goal  line  and  then  has  it 

ball  has  been  kicked  by  a  player,  all  those  of 
his  side  who  are  ahead  of  him,  that  is,  between 
him  and  his  opponents'  goal,  are  off  side,  and 
e^•en  though  the  ball  go  over  their  heads  they 
are  still  off  side  until  the  ball  has  been  touched 
by  an  opponent,  or  until  the  man  who  kicked  it 


has  run  up  ahead  of  them.  Either  of  these  two 
events  puts  them  on  side  again.  Any  player  who 
is  on  side  may  run  with  or  kick  the  ball,  and  his 
opponents  may  tackle  him  whenever  he  has  the 
ball  in  his  arms.  It  is  fair  for  them  to  tackle 
him  in  any  way  except  below  the  knees.  They 
must  not,  however,  throttle  or  choke  him,  nor 
can  players  use  the  closed  fist.  The  runner  may 
push  his  opponents  off  with  his  open  hand  or 
arm,  in  any  way  he  pleases,  and  abilit\-  to  do  this 
well  goes  far  toward  making  a  successful  runner. 

When  a  player  having  the  ball  is  tackled  and 
fairly  held  so  that  his  advance  is  checked,  and 
he  can  not  pass  the  ball,  the  player  tackling 
him  cries  out  "  Held !  "  The  runner  must  say 
"  Down,"  and  the  ball  is  then  put  on  the  ground 
for  a  scrimmage.  Any  player  of  the  side  which 
had  possession  of  the  ball  can  then  put  it  in  play. 
Usually  the  "  snap-back,"  as  he  is  called,  does 
this  work.  He  places  the  ball  on  the  ground, 
and  then  with  his  foot  (or  hand)  rolls  the  ball 
back,  or  kicks  it  forward  or  to  one  side,  generally 
for  a  player  of  his  own  side  to  seize.  When  the 
ball  is  rolled  or  snapped  back,  the  man  who  first 
receives  it  is  called  the  quarter-back,  and  he 
can  not  run  forw^ard  with  it.  ^^'he^,  however, 
it  is  kicked  sideways  or  ahead,  any  one  except 
the  snap-back  and  the  opposing  player  opposite 
him  can  run  with  it. 

"  Free  kicks "  are  those  where  the  opponents 
are  restrained  by  rule  from  interfering  with  the  ball 
or  player  until  the  kick  is  made.  At  the  com- 
mencement of  the  game,  the  side  which  has  lost 
the  choice  of  goals  has  a  free  kick  from  the  cen- 
ter of  the  field ;  and  when  a  goal  has  been  scored 
the  side  which  has  lost  it  has  a  free  kick  from  the 
same  location.  Any  player  who  fairly  catches 
the  ball  on  the  fly  from  an  opponent's  kick,  has  a 
free  kick,  provided  he  makes  a  mark  with  his  heel 
on  the  spot  of  the  catch.  A  side  which  has  made 
a  touchdown  has  a  free  kick  at  the  goal,  and  a 
side  which  has  made  a  safety  or  a  touchback 
has  a  free  kick  from  any  spot  behind  the  twenty- 
five-yard  line.  This  line  is  the  fifth  white  line 
from  their  goal,  and  upon  that  mark  the  oppo- 
nents may  line  up. 

A  violation  of  any  rule  is  called  a  foul,  and 
the  other  side  has  the  privilege  of  putting  the 
ball  down  where  the  foul  was  made.  Certain 
fouls  are  punished  by  additional  penalties.     A 

pla}"er  is  immediately  disqualified  for  striking 
with  the  closed  fist  or  unnecessary  roughness.  A 
side  loses  twenty-five  yards,  or  the  opponents 
may  have  a  free  kick,  as  a  penalty  for  throttling, 
tripping  up,  or  tackling  below  the  knees.  For 
oft-side  play  a  side  loses  five  )-ards.  A  player 
may  pass  or  throw  the  ball  in  any  direction  ex- 
cept toward  his  opponents'  goal.  When  the  ball 
goes  out  of  bounds  at  the  side,  it  is  "put  in"  at 
the  spot  where  it  crossed  the  line  by  a  player  of 
the  side  first  securing  the  ball.  He  bounds  or 
throws  the  ball  in  ;  or  he  may,  if  he  prefers,  walk 
out  with  it  any  distance  not  greater  than  fifteen 
paces,  and  put  it  down  for  a  scrimmage. 

.o  -'^^^^i,- 


Of  the  two  individuals  one  sees  on  the  field  in 
citizen's  dress,  one  is  the  umpire  and  the  other  the 
referee.  These  two  gentlemen  are  selected  to  see 
that  the  rules  are  observed  and  to  settle  any  ques- 
tions arising  during  the  progress  of  the  game. 
It  is  the  duty  of  the  umpire  to  decide  all  points 
directly  connected  with  the  players'  conduct, 
while  the  referee  decides  questions  of  the  posi- 
tion or  progress  of  the  ball.  The  original  rules 
provided  that  the  captains  of  the  two  sides 
should  settle  all  disputes;  but  this,  at  the  very 
outset,  was  .so  manifesdy  out  of  the  question  that 
a  provision  was  made  for  a  referee.  Then,  as 
the  captains  had  their  hands  full  in  commanding 
their  teams,  two  judges  were  appointed,  and  it 
was  the  duty  of  these  judges  to  make  all  claims 
for  their  respective  sides.  These  judges  soon  be- 
came so  importunate  with  their  innumerable 
claims  as  to  harass  the  referee  beyond  all  en- 
durance. The  next  step,  therefore,  was  to  do 
away  with  the  judges  and  leave  the  referee  sole 




master  of  the  field.  Even  then  the  referee  found 
so  much  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  watch, 
that  it  was  decided  to  appoint  a  second  man, 
called  an  umpire,  to  assist  him.  This  umpire 
assumed  the  responsibility  of  seeing  that  the 
players  committed  no  fouls,  thus  leaving  the 
referee's  undivided  attention  to  be  devoted  to 
following  the  course  of  the  ball. 

This  has  proved  so  wonderfully  successful 
that  the  base-ball  legislators  are  seriously  con- 
sidering the  question  of  adopting  a  similar  system 
of  dividing  the  work  between  two  umpires. 

gradual  development  from  the  English  Rugby, 
are  peculiarly  interesting,  showing  as  they  do 
the  inventive  faculty  of  our  college  players. 
The  way  in  which  the  quarter-back  play  was 
suggested  and  perfected  illustrates  this  very 
strongly.  Our  players  began  exactly  as  the  Eng- 
lishmen, by  putting  the  ball  on  the  ground,  clos- 
ing around  it,  and  then  kicking  until  it  rolled 
out  somewhere.  In  the  first  season  of  this  style 
of  scrimmage  play,  they  made  the  discovery  that 
far  from  being  an  advantage  to  kick  the  ball 
through,  it  often  resulted  in  a  great  disadvan- 

There  are  two  general  divisions  of  players, 
the  "  rushers  "  or  "  forwards,"  so  called  because 
they  constitute  the  front  rank  of  the  foot-ball 
army ;  and  the  backs,  called  the  quarter-back, 
the  half-backs  or  halves,  and  the  full-back  or 
goal-tend.  The  quarter  has  been  already  de- 
scribed. The  halves,  of  whom  there  are  two, 
play  several  yards  behind  the  rushers,  and  do 
the  kicking  or  artillery  work.  The  goal-tend  is 
really  only  a  third  half-back,  his  work  being 
almost  the  same  as  that  of  the  halves. 

The  changes  the  game  has  undergone  in  its 

tage,  for  it  gave  the  opponents  a  chance  to  se- 
cure the  ball  and  make  a  run.  The  players, 
therefore,  would  station  a  man  a  short  distance 
behind  the  scrimmage,  and  the  rushers  in  front 
would  manage  to  so  cleverly  assist  the  kicking 
of  the  opponents  as  to  let  the  ball  come  through 
directly  to  this  player,  who  had  then  an  excellent 
opportunit}-  to  run  around  the  mass  of  men  be- 
fore they  realized  that  the  ball  had  escaped. 

Soon  an  adventurous  spirit  discovered  that  he 
could  so  place  his  foot  upon  the  ball  that  by 
pressing  suddenly  downwards   and   backwards 




with  liis  toe  he  would  drag  or  snap  the  ball  to 
the  man  behind  him.  At  first,  naturally,  the 
snap-back  was  not  sufficiently  proficient  to  be 
always  sure  in  his  aim,  but  it  did  not  take  long 
to  make  the  play  a  very  accurate  one,  and  in  the 
games  to-day  it  is  unusual  for  the  snap-back  to 
fail  in  properly  sending  the  ball  to  his  quarter. 

Originally  the  quarter  was  wont  to  run  with  or 
kick  the  ball,  but  now  as  a  rule  he  passes  it  to 
one  of  the  halves  or  to  a  rusher  who  has  come 
behind  him,  instead  of  making  the  run  himself. 
The  quarter  then  directs  the  course  of  the  play, 
so  that  scientific  planning  is  possible ;  whereas 
in  the  old  method  the  element  of  chance  was 
far  greater  than  that  of  skill. 

One  frequently  hears  old  players  speak  of 
the  "  block  game  "  and  its  attendant  evils.  This 
was  a  system  of  play  by  which  an  inferior  team 
was  enabled  to  escape  defeat  by  keeping  con- 
tinual possession  of  the  ball,  while  actually 
making  but  a  pretense  of  play.  So  great  did 
the  evil  become,  that  in  1882  a  rule  was  made, 
which  has  already  been  mentioned,  to  the  effect 
that  a  side  must  make  an  advance  of  five 
yards  or  retreat  ten*  in  three  scrimmages.  The 
penalty  for  not  doing  this  is  the  loss  of  the  ball 
to  the  opponents.  A  kick  is  considered  equiva- 
lent to  an  advance,  even  though  the  sarne  side 
should,  by  some  error  of  the  opponents,  regain 
the  ball  when  it  comes  down.  The  natural 
working  of  this  rule,  as  spectators  of  the  game 
will  readily  see,  is  to  cause  a  side  to  make  one 
or  two  attempts  to  advance  by  the  running  style 
of  play,  and  then,  if  they  have  not  made  the 
necessary  five  yards,  to  pass  the  ball  back  to  a 
half  for  a  kick.  The  wisdom  of  this  play  is  evi- 
dent. If  they  find  they  must  lose  the  ball,  they 
wish  it  to  fall  to  their  opponents  as  far  down  the 
field  as  possible,  and  so  they  send  it  by  a  long 
kick  as  near  the  enemies'  goal  as  they  can. 

One  other  rule,  besides  this  one,  has  had  a  de- 
velopment worthy  of  particular  attention.  It  is 
the  one  regarding  the  value  of  the  points  scored. 
At  first,  goals  only  were  scored.  Then  touch- 
downs were  brought  in,  and  a  match  was  decided 
by  a  majority  of  these,  while  a  goal  received  a 
certain  equivalent  value  in  touchdowns.  Then 
the  scoring  of  safeties  was  introduced ;  but  only 
in  this  way,  that  in  case  no  other  point  was 
scored  a  side  making  four  less  safeties  than  their 

Vol.   XVII.— 6.  •  This  was  altered  r 

opponents  should  win  the  match.  A  goal  kicked 
from  a  touchdown  had  always  been  con.sidered 
of  greater  value  than  a  field-kick  goal,  but  it 
was  not  until  the  scoring  had  reached  the  point 
of  counting  safeties,  that  it  was  decided  to  give 
numerical  values  to  the  various  points  in  order 
that  matches  might  be  more  surely  and  satisfac- 
torily decided.  From  this  eventually  came  the 
method  of  scoring  as  mentioned  earlier  in  this 

A  few  diagrams  illustrati\e  of  the  general 
l^osition  of  the  players  when  executing  various 
maneuvers  will  assist  the  reader  in  obtaining  an 
insight  into  the  plays.  As  there  are  no  hard 
and  fast  rules  for  these  positions  they  are  de- 
pendent upon  the  judgment  of  each  individual 
captain;  nevertheless  the  following  diagrams 
indicate  in  a  general  way  the  formations  most 

The  first  diagram  shows  the  measurements 
of  the  field  as  well  as  the  general  position  of  two 
teams  just  previous  to  the  kick-oft',  or  opening 
of  the  game.  While  the  front  rank  are  all  called 
forwards  or  rushers,  distinctive  names  are  given 
to  the  individual  positions.  These  also  are  noted 
on  this  first  diagram. 

The  forwards  of  the  side  which  has  the  kick, 
"line  up"  even  with  the  ball,  while  their  oppo- 
nents take  up  their  positions  ten  yards  away. 
They  are  not  permitted  to  approach  nearer 
until  the  ball  is  touched  with  the  foot.  For- 
merly, when  it  was  the  practice  at  kick-oft"  to 
send  the  ball  as  far  down  the  field  as  possible, 
the  opponents  were  wont  to  drop  two  forwards, 
near  the  ends  of  the  line,  back  a  few  feet ;  thus 
providing  for  a  short  kick.  The  quarter  took  his 
place  in  a  straight  line  back  from  the  ball  some 
sixty  or  seventy  feet,  while  the  two  halves  and 
the  back  stood  sufficiently  distant  to  be  sure  of 
catching  a  long  kick.  The  positions  of  the  side 
kicking  the  ball  were  not  so  scattered.  All  their 
forwards  and  the  quarter  stood  even  with  the 
ball,  ready  to  dash  down  the  field ;  while  the 
halves  and  back  stood  only  a  short  distance  be- 
hind them,  because  as  soon  as  the  ball  was  sent 
down  the  field  they  would  be  in  proper  places 
to  receive  a  return  kick  from  the  opponents. 

The  kick-off  of  the  present  day  is  more  apt  to 
be  a  "dribble,"  or  a  touching  the  ball  with  the 
foot  and  then  passing  or  running  with  it.     The 

cently  to  twenty  yards. 




result  of  this  is  that  the  opponents  mass  more 
compactly,  the  halves  and  quarter  not  playing 
far  down  the  field  and  the  rushers  at  the  ends 
not  dropping  back.     The  side  having  the  kick, 

the  man  who  is  to  play  the  ball.  Diagram  2 
illustrates  the  position  at  the  moment  of  the  kick- 
oft".  The  kicker  touches  the  ball  with  his  foot, 
picks  it  up  and  hands  it  to  the  runner  who  is 

i-      <£> 


330   FEET 




■  < 


CD  111. 

00  CO 

■  Ctr 







-o     ;    SHAPBACKo' 

^       5UARD°; 



ioTACKlElONAlF   i 
L6UARD'       '        ' 

:    SNAP  BACK' 

i^guaro    ; 

PENb     i       I 

CK  ' 










3M11  HDflOl 

3Nn  Honoi 

sQNnoa  ao  Honoi 

aNii  Honoi 





keeping  in  mind,  of  course,  the  particular  play 
they  intend  to  make,  assume  positions  that  shall 
the  most  readily  deceive  their  opponents,  if 
possible,  and  yet  most  favor  the  success  of  their 

For  instance,  an  opening  play  quite  common 
last  year  was  the  "wedge"  or  "V."  In  dia- 
grams 2  and  3  are  shown  the  positions  in  this 
play.  As  the  players  "line  out"  they  assume  as 
nearly  as  possible  the  regular  formation,  in  order 

I— I 


DIAGRAM     2. 

DIAGRAM     3. 

that  their  opponents  may  not  at  once  become 
too  certain  of  their  intention.  As  soon,  how- 
ever, as  play  has  been  called,  one  sees  the  rushers 
closing  up  to  the  center  and  the  player  who  is 
to  make  the  running,  dropping  in  close  behind 

coming  just  behind  him.  The  forwards  at  once 
dash  forward,  making  a  V-shaped  mass  of  men 
just  within  the  angle  of  wliich  trots  along  the 
runner.     Diagram  3  shows  them  at  this  point. 

But  tliis  wedge  no  sooner  meets  tlie  opposing 
line,  than  the  formation  becomes  more  or  less 
unsteady,  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  strength 
and  skill  of  the  opponents.  Against  untrained 
players  the  wedge  moves  without  great  difticulty, 
often  making  twenty  or  thirty  yards  before  it 
is  broken.  Skillful  opponents  will  tear  it  apart 
much  more  .speedily. 

Now  comes  the  most  scientific  part  of  the 
play;  namely,  the  outlet  for  the  runner  and 
ball.  There  are  two  ways  of  successfully  mak- 
ing this  outlet.  One  is  to  have  a  running  half- 
back moving  along  outside  the  wedge,  taking 
care  to  be  a  little  behind  the  runner  so  that 
the  ball  may  be  passed  to  him  without  com- 
mitting the  foul  of  passing  it  ahead.  When 
the  wedge  begins  to  go  to  pieces,  the  ball  is 
de.\terously  thrown  out  to  him  and  he  has  an 
excellent  opportunity  for  a  run,  because  the 
opposing  rushers  are  so  involved  in  breaking  the 



wedge  that  they  can  not  get  after  him  quickly. 
Diagram  4  illustrates  this.  The  second,  and  by 
far  the  most  successful  when  well  played,  is  for 
two  of  the  forwards  in  the  wedge  to  suddenly 
separate  and  in  their  separation  to  push  their 
opponents   aside  with  their  bodies,  so  that  a 


o      o 

DIAGRAM    4.  DIAGRAM    5, 

pathway  is  opened  for  the  runner,  so  he  can 
dart  out  with  the  ball.     Diagram  5  shows  this. 

The  wedge  formation  is  a  good  play  from 
any  free  kick,  because  the  opponents  are  so  re- 
strained by  being  obliged  to  keep  behind  a  certain 
spot,  that  time  is  given  for  the  wedge  to  form  and 
acquire  some  headway  before  they  can  meet  it. 

The  formation  of  the  side  which  has  the  ball 
in  a  scrimmage,  next  occupies  our  attention. 
As  stated  before  in  this  article,  it  is  customary 
for  them  to  make  two  attempts  to  advance  the 

DIAGRAM    g. 

ball  by  a  run  before  resorting  to  a  kick.  There 
is  some  slight  difference  in  the  ways  they  form 
for  these  two  styles  of  play.  Diagram  6  shows 
the  formation  just  previous  to  the  run.  The 
forwards  are  lined  out,  blocking  their  respective 
opponents,  while  the  halves  and  backs  generally 
bunch  somewhat  in  order  to  deceive  the  oppo- 
nents as  to  which  man  is  to  receive  the  ball,  as 
well  as  to  assist  him,  when  he  starts,  by  blocking 
off  the  first  tacklers. 

Diagram  7  shows  the  line  of  a  half-back's  run 
through  the  rushers.  A  and  B  endeavor,  as  he 
comes,  to  separate  (by  the  use  of  their  bodies,  for 
they  can  not  use  their  hands  or  arms  to  assist 
their  runner)  the  two  rushers  in  front  of  them, 
that  the  runner  may  get  through  between  them. 

Diagram  8  shows  still  another  phase  of  the 
running-game,  where  a  rusher  runs  around  be- 
hind the  quarter,  taking  the  ball  from  him  on 
the  run  and  making  for  an  opening  on  the  other 
side,  or  even  on  the  very  end. 

Diagram  9  shows  the  formation  when,  having 

DIAGRAM    6. 

made  two  attempts  and  not  having  advanced 
the  ball  five  nor  lost  twenty  yards,  the  side  pre- 
fers to  take  a  kick  rather  than  risk  a  third  fail- 
ure, which  would  give  the  ball  to  the  opponents 
on  the  spot  of  the  next  "down."  The  forma- 
tion is  very  like  that  for  the  run,  except  that 
the  distance  between  the  forward  line  and  the 
halves  is  somewhat  increased  and  the  three  men 
are  strung  out  rather  more. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  formation  of  the  op- 
posing side  during  these  plays.     There  is  but 


DIAGRAM    10. 



one  formation  for  the  opponents  in  facing  the 
running-game,  and  that  is  according  to  diagram 
10.  Of  course  they  alter  this  whenever  they 
have  the  good  fortune  to  discover  where  the 
run  is  to  be  made,  but  this  is  seldom  so  evident 
as  to  make  much  of  an  alteration  in  formation 
safe.  Their  forwards  line  up,  and  their  quarter 
goes  into  the  rush-line  wherever  he  finds  the 
best  opening.  Their  halves  stand  fairly  close 
up  behind  and  their  back  only  a  little  distance 
further  toward  the  goal.  The  formation,  after  the 
two  attempts  to  run  have  failed,  is,  however,  quite 
different  in  respect  to  the  half-backs  and  backs. 
They  at  once  run  rapidly  back  until  they  are  all 
three  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  for- 
wards.    The  back  stands  as  far  as  he  thinks 




it  possible  for  the  opposing  half  to  kick,  under 
the  most  favorable  circumstances,  while  the  two 
halves  stand  perhaps  forty  or  fifty  feet  in  advance, 
ready  to  take  the  ball  from  a  shorter  kick.  Dia- 
gram 1 1  illustrates  this. 

In  a  "fair"  or  putting  the  ball  in  from  the 


DIAGRAM     12. 

Dl.AGRAM    13. 

touch  (see  diagram  12),  the  same  general  forma- 
tion prevails  as  in  the  ordinary  scrimmage,  for  it 
is  reall)-  nothing  more  than  a  scrimmage  on  the 
side  of  thefield  instead  of  in  the  middle.  It  counts 
the  same  as  an  ordinary  "  down  "  in  respect  to  the 
necessity  of  advancing  five  yards ;  that  is,  if  a  side 
has  made  one  attempt,  from  a  down,  to  advance 
and  has  carried  the  ball  out  of  bounds,  and 
then  makes  another  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
advance  but  is  obliged  to  have  the  ball  down 

again,  without  accomplishing  the  five-yard  gain, 
it  must  on  the  next  attempt  make  the  distance 
or  surrender  the  ball. 

After  a  touchdown  has  been  made,  if  a  try- 
at-goal  is  attempted  by  a  place-kick, the  fomia- 
rion  is  somewhat  similar  to  a  kick-oft".  (See 
diagram  13.)  The  man  who  is  to  place  the 
ball  lies  flat  on  his  stomach  with  the  ball  in  his 
hands,  taking  care  that  until  the  kicker  is  ready 
it  docs  not  touch  the  ground,  as  that  permits 
the  opponents  to  charge.  The  forwards  line 
up  even  with  the  ball,  ready  to  run  down 
when  it  is  kicked,  in  order  that  they  may  have 
a  chance  of  getting  it,  in  case  he  misses  the  goal. 
The  other  half  and  the  back  stand  a  few  feet 
behind  the  kicker.  The  position  of  the  opponents 
in  this  play  is  necessarily  limited,  for  they  are 
obliged  to  stand  behind  their  goal  until  the  ball 
is  kicked.  The  same  diagram  (13)  shows  the 
position  they  assume.  Their  rushers  undertake 
to  run  forward  and  stop  the  ball,  while  their 
halves  and  back  are  ready,  in  case  it  misses,  to 
make  a  touchback. 

These  diagrams  cover  the  most  important 
plays  of  the  game  and  give  one  an  insight  into  the 
general  manipulation  of  players  during  match. 


Bv  Mary  E.  Wilkins. 

Ann  Lizv  was  invited  to  spend  the  afternoon 
and  take  tea  with  her  friend  Jane  Baxter,  and 
she  was  ready  to  set  forth  about  one  o'clock. 
That  was  the  fashionable  hour  for  children  and 
their  elders  to  start  when  they  were  invited  out 
to  spend  the  afternoon. 

Ann  Lizy  had  on  her  best  muslin  delaine 
dress,  her  best  embroidered  pantalets,  her  black 
silk  apron,  and  her  flat  straw  hat  with  long  blue 
ribbon  streamers.  She  stood  in  the  south  room 
— the  sitting-room — before  her  grandmother, 
who  was  putting  some  squares  of  patchwork, 
■with  needle,  thread,  and  scissors,  into  a  green 
silk  bag  embroidered  with  roses  in  bead-work. 

"There,  Ann  Lizy,"  said  her  grandmother, 
"  you  may  take  my  bag  if  you  are  real  careful 
of  it,  and  won't  lose  it.  When  you  get  to  Jane's 
you  lay  it  on  the  table,  and  don't  have  it  round 
when  you  're  playin'  outdoors." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ann  Lizy.  She  was  look- 
ing \vith  radiant,  admiring  eyes  at  the  bag  —  its 
cluster  of  cunningly  -svrought  pink  roses  upon 
the  glossy  green  field  of  silk.  Still  there  was  a 
serious  droop  to  her  mouth ;  she  knew  there 
was  a  bitter  to  this  sweet. 

"  Now,"  said  her  grandmother,  "  I  've  put 
four  squares  of  patchwork  in  the  bag;  they  're 
all  cut  and  basted  nice,  and  you  must  sew  'em 



all,  over  and  over,  before  you  play  any.  Sew  'em 
real  fine  and  even,  or  you  '11  have  to  pick  the 
stitches  out  when  you  get  home." 

Ann  Lizy's  radiant  eyes  faded;  she  hung  her 
head.  She  calculated  s\nftly  that  she  could  not 
finish  the  patchwork  before  four  o'clock,  and 
that  would  leave  her  only  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
eat  supper  and  play  with  Jane,  for  she  would 
have  to  come  home  at  half-past  five.  "  Can't 
I  take  two,  and  do  the  other  two  to-morrow, 
Grandma  ?  "  said  she. 

Her  grandmother  straightened  herself  disap- 
provingly. She  was  a  tall,  wiry  old  woman  with 
strong  handsome  features  showing  through  her 
wrinkles.  She  had  been  so  energetic  all  her  life, 
and  done  so  much  work,  that  her  estimation  of 
it  was  worn,  like  scales.  Four  squares  of  patch- 
work sewed  with  very  fine  even  stitches  had,  to 
her,  no  weight  at  all ;  it  did  not  seem  like  work. 

"  Well,  if  a  great  girl  like  you  can't  sew  four 
squares  of  patchwork  in  an  artemoon,  I  would  n't 
tell  of  it,  Ann  Lizy,"  said  she.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  'd  say  if  you  had  to  work  the  way  I 
did  at  your  age.  If  you  can't  have  time  enough 
to  play  and  do  a  little  thing  like  that,  you  'd 
better  stay  at  home.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  you 
idle  a  whole  arternoon,  if  I  know  it.  Time  's 
worth  too  much  to  be  wasted  that  way." 

"  I  'd  sew  the  others  to-morrow,"  pleaded 
Ann  Lizy  faintly. 

"  Oh,  you  would  n't  do  it  half  so  easy  to- 
morrow; you  've  got  to  pick  the  currants  for  the 
jell'  to-morrow.  Besides,  that  does  n't  make  any 
difference.  To-day's  work  is  to-day's  work, 
and  it  has  n't  anything  to  do  with  to-morrow's. 
It 's  no  excuse  for  idlin'  one  day,  because  you  do 
work  the  next.  You  take  that  patchwork,  and 
sit  right  down  and  sew  it  as  soon  as  you  get 
there — don't  put  it  off — and  sew  it  nice  too,  or 
you  can  stay  at  home — just  which  you  hke." 

Ann  Lizy  sighed,  but  reached  out  her  hand 
for  the  bag.  "  Now  be  careful  and  not  lose  it," 
said  her  grandmother,  "  and  be  a  good  girl." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

•'  Don't  run  too  hard,  nor  go  to  climbin' 
walls,  and  get  your  best  dress  torn." 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  And  only  one  piece  of  cake  at  tea-time." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  start  for  home  at  half-past  five." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Little  Ann  Lizy  Jennings,  as  she  went  down 
the  walk  between  the  rows  of  pinks,  had  a  be- 
wildered feeling  that  she  had  been  to  Jane 
Baxter's  to  tea,  and  was  home  again. 

Her  parents  were  dead,  and  she  Hved  with 
her  Grandmother  Jennings,  who  made  her  child- 
hood comfortable  and  happy,  except  that  at 
times  she  seemed  taken  ofi'  her  childish  feet  by 
the  energy  and  strong  mind  of  the  old  woman, 
and  so  swung  a  little  way  through  the  world  in 
her  wake.  But  Ann  Lizy  received  no  harm 
by  it. 

Ann  Lizy  went  down  the  road  \\ith  the  bead 
bag  on  her  arm.  She  toed  out  primly,  for  she 
had  on  her  best  shoes.  A  little  girl,  whom  she 
knew,  stood  at  a  gate  in  every-day  clothes,  and 
Ann  Lizy  bowed  to  her  in  the  way  she  had  seen 
the  parson's  wife  bow,  when  out  making  calls  in 
her  best  black  silk  and  worked  lace  veil.  The 
parson's  \vik  was  young  and  pretty,  and  Ann 
Lizy  admired  her.  It  was  quite  a  long  walk  to 
Jane  Baxter's,  but  it  was  a  beautiful  afternoon, 
and  the  road  was  pleasant,  although  there  were 
not  many  houses.  There  were  green  fields  and 
flowering  bushes  at  the  .sides,  and,  some  of  the 
way,  elm-trees  arching  over  it.  Ann  Lizy  would 
have  been  very  happy  had  it  not  been  for  the 
patchwork.  She  had  already  pieced  one  patch- 
work quilt,  and  her  grandmother  displayed  it  to 
people  with  pride,  sajing,  "Ann  Lizy  pieced  that 
before  she  was  eight  years  old." 

Ann  Lizy  had  not  as  much  ambition  as  her 
grandmother,  now  she  was  engaged  upon  her 
second  quilt,  and  it  looked  to  her  like  a  checked 
and  besprigged  calico  mountain.  She  kept 
dwelling  upon  those  four  squares,  over  and  over, 
until  she  felt  as  if  each  side  were  as  long  as  the 
Green  Mountain.-;.  She  calculated  again  and 
again  how  little  time  she  would  have  to  play 
with  Jane  —  only  about  an  hour,  for  she  must 
allow  a  half-hour  for  tea.  She  was  not  a  swift 
sewer  when  she  sewed  fine  and  even  stitches, 
and  she  knew  she  could  not  finish  those  squares 
before  four  o'clock.  One  hourl — and  she  and 
Jane  wanted  to  play  dolls,  and  make  wreaths 
out  of  oak-leaves,  and  go  down  in  the  lane  after 
thimble-berries,  and  in  the  garden  for  goose- 
berries— there  would  be  no  time  for  anything! 

Ann  Lizy's  delicate  litde  face  under  the  straw 




flat  grew  more  and  more  sulky  and  distressed, 
her  forehead  wrinkled,  and  her  mouth  pouted. 
She  forgot  to  swing  her  muslin  delaine  skirts 
gracefully,  and  flounced  along  hitting  the  dusty 
meadow-sweet  bushes. 

Ann  Lizy  was  about  half-way  to  Jane  Baxter's 
house,  in  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  when  she 
opened  her  bead  bag  and  drew  out  her  pocket- 
handkerchief — her  grandmother  had  tucked  that 
in  with  the  patchwork  —  and  wiped  her  eyes. 
When  she  replaced  the  handkerchief,  she  put  it 
under  the  patchwork,  and  did  not  draw  up  the 
bag  again,  but  went  on,  swinging  it  \'iolently  by 
one  string. 

When  Ann  Lizy  reached  Jane  Baxter's  gate, 
she  gave  a  quick,  scared  glance  at  the  bag.  It 
looked  very  flat  and  limp.  She  did  not  open 
it,  and  she  said  nothing  about  it  to  Jane.  They 
went  out  to  play  in  the  garden.  There  were  so 
many  hollyhocks  there  that  it  seemed  like  a  real 
flower-grove,  and  the  gooseberries  were  ripe. 

Shortly  after  Ann  Lizy  entered  Jane  Baxter's 
house,  a  white  horse  and  a  chaise  passed  down 
the  road  in  the  direction  from  which  she  had 
just  come.  There  were  three  persons  in  the 
chaise  —  a  gentleman,  lady,  and  little  girl.  The 
lady  wore  a  green  silk  pelerine,  and  a  green 
bonnet  with  pink  strings,  and  the  gentleman  a 
blue  coat  and  bell  hat.  The  little  girl  had  pretty 
long,  ligiit  curls,  and  wore  a  white  dress  and 
blue  sash.  She  sat  on  a  little  footstool  down  in 
front  of  the  seat.  They  were  the  parson's  wife's 
sister,  her  husband,  and  her  little  girl,  and  had 
been  to  visit  at  the  parsonage.  The  gentleman 
drove  the  white  horse  down  the  road,  and  the 
little  girl  looked  sharply  and  happUy  at  every- 
thing by  the  way.  All  at  once  she  gave  a  little 
cry — "Oh,  Father,  what  's  that  in  the  road  ?" 

She  saw  Ann  Lizy's  patchwork,  all  four  squares 
nicely  pinned  together,  lying  beside  the  meadow- 
sweet bushes.  Her  father  stopped  the  horse,  got 
out,  and  picked  up  the  patchwork. 

"  Why,"  said  the  parson's  wife's  sister,  "  some 
Htde  girl  has  lost  her  patchwork ;  look,  Sally  ! " 

"  She  '11  be  sorry,  won't  she  ?  "  said  the  little 
girl  whose  name  was  Sally. 

The  gentleman  got  back  into  the  chaise,  and 
the  three  rode  oft"  with  the  patchwork.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  else  to  do ;  there  were  no 
houses  near  and  no  people  of  whom  to  inquire. 

Besides,  four  squares  of  calico  patchwork  were 
not  especially  valuable. 

"If  we  don't  find  out  who  lost  it,  I  '11  put  it 
into  my  quilt,"  said  Sally.  She  studied  the  pat- 
terns of  the  calico  veiy  happily,  as  they  rode 
along ;  she  thought  them  prettier  than  anything 
she  had.  One  had  pink  roses  on  a  green  ground, 
and  she  thought  that  especially  charming. 

Meantime,  while  Sally  and  her  father  and 
mother  rode  away  in  the  chaise  with  the  patch- 
work, to  Whitefield,  ten  miles  distant,  where  their 
house  was,  Ann  Lizy  and  Jane  played  as  fast 
as  they  could.  It  was  four  o'clock  before  they 
went  into  the  house.  Ann  Lizy  opened  her  bag, 
which  she  had  laid  on  the  parlor-table  with  the 
"Young  Lady's  Annuals"  and  "  Mrs.  Hemans' 
Poems."  "  I  s'pose  I  must  sew  my  patchwork," 
said  she,  in  a  miserable  guilty  Httle  voice.  Then 
she  exclaimed.  It  was  strange  that,  well  as  she 
knew  there  was  no  patchwork  there,  the  actual 
discovery  of  nothing  at  all  gave  her  a  shock. 

"  What  's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Jane. 

"  I  've  —  lost  my  patchwork,"  said  Ann  Lizy. 

Jane  called  her  mother,  and  they  condoled 
with  Ann  Lizy.  Ann  Lizy  sat  in  one  of  Mrs. 
Baxter's  rush-bottomed  chairs  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Where  did  you  lose  it  ?  "  Mrs.  Baxter  asked. 
"  Don't  cry,  Ann  Lizy,  maybe  we  can  find  it." 

"  I  s'pose  I — lost  it  comin',"  sobbed  Ann  Lizy. 

"Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  't  is,"  said  .Mrs. 
Ba.xter;  "  you  and  Jane  had  better  run  up  the 
road  a  piece,  and  likely  as  not  you  '11  find-  it ; 
and  I  '11  have  tea  all  ready  when  you  come  home. 
Don't  feel  so  bad,  child,  you  '11  find  it,  right 
where  you  dropped  it." 

But  Ann  Lizy  and  Jane,  searching  carefiflly 
along  the  road,  did  not  find  the  patchwork  where 
it  had  been  dropped.  "  Maybe  it  's  blown 
away,"  suggested  Jane,  although  there  was 
hardly  wind  enough  that  afternoon  to  stir  a 
feather.  And  the  two  little  girls  climbed  over 
the  stone  walls,  and  searched  in  the  fields,  but 
they  did  not  find  the  patchwork.  Then  another 
mishap  befell  Ann  Lizy.  She  tore  a  three-cor- 
nered place  in  her  best  muslin  delaine,  getting 
over  the  wall.  When  she  saw  that  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  in  a  dreadful  dream.  "  Oh,  what  will 
Grandma  say  !  "  she  wailed. 

"  Maybe  she  won't  scold,"  said  Jane,  consol- 



"  Yes,  she  will.     Oh  dear !  " 

The  two  little  girls  went  dolefully  home  to  tea. 
There  were  hot  biscuits,  and  honey,  and  tarts, 
and  short  gingerbread,  and  custards,  but  Ann 
Lizy  did  not  feel  hungry.  Mrs.  Baxter  tried  to 
comfort  her ;  she  really  saw  not  much  to  mourn 
over,  except  the  rent  in  the  best  dress,  as  four 
squares  of  patchwork  could  easily  be  replaced ; 
she  did  not  see  the  true  inwardness  of  the  case. 

At  half-past  five,  Ann  Lizy,  miserable  and 
tear-stained,  the  three-cornered  rent  in  her  best 
dress  pinned  up,  started  for  home,  and  then  — 
her  grandmother's  beautiful  bead  bag  was  not  to 
be  found.  Ann  Lizy  and  Jane  both  remembered 
that  it  had  been  carried  when  they  set  out  to 
find  the  patchwork.  Ann  Lizy  had  meditated 
bringing  the  patchwork  home  in  it. 

"  Aunt  Cynthy  made  that  bag  for  Grandma," 
said  Ann  Lizy  in  a  tone  of  dull  despair ;  this  was 
beyond  tears. 

"  Well,  Jane  shall  go  with  you,  and  help  find 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  "  and  I  '11  leave  the  tea- 
dishes  and  go  too.  Don't  feel  so  bad,  Ann 
Lizy,  I  know  I  can  find  it." 

But  Mrs.  Baxter,  and  Jane,  and  Ann  Lizy, 
all  searching,  could  not  find  the  bead  bag.  "  My 
best  handkerchief  was  in  it,"  said  Ann  Lizy. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  her  best  things  were 
gone.  She  and  Mrs.  Baxter  and  Jane  made  a 
doleful  little  group  in  the  road.  The  frogs  were 
peeping,  and  the  cows  were  coming  home. 
Mrs.  Baxter  asked  the  boy  who  drove  the  cows 
if  he  had  seen  a  green  bead  bag,  or  four  squares 
of  jjatchwork ;  he  stared  and  shook  his  head. 

Ann  Lizy  looked  like  a  wilted  meadow  reed, 
the  blue  streamers  on  her  hat  drooped  dejectedly, 
her  best  shoes  were  all  dusty,  and  the  three- 
cornered  rent  was  the  feature  of  her  best  muslin 
delaine  dress  that  one  saw  first.  Then  her  little 
delicate  face  was  all  tear-stains  and  downward 
curves.  She  stood  there  in  the  road  as  if  she 
had  not  courage  to  stir. 

"  Now,  Ann  Lizy,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  "  you  'd 
better  run  right  home  and  not  worry.  I  don't 
believe  your  Grandma  '11  scold  you,  when  you 
tell  her  just  how  't  was." 

.^.nn  Lizy  shook  her  head.     "  Yes,  she  will." 

"Well,  she  '11  be  worrying  about  you  if  you 
ain't  home  before  long,  and  I  guess  you  'd  better 
go,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter. 

Ann  Lizy  said  not  another  word ;  she  began 
to  move  dejectedly  toward  home.  Jane  and 
her  mother  called  many  kindly  words  after  her, 
but  she  did  not  heed  them.  She  kept  straight 
on,  walking  slowly  until  she  was  home.  Her 
grandmother  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  for 
her.  She  had  a  blue-yarn  stocking  in  her  hands, 
and  she  was  knitting  fast  as  she  watched. 

"Ann  Lizy,  where  have  you  been,  late  as 
this  ?  "  she  called  out  as  Ann  Lizy  came  up  the 
walk.     "  It  's  arter  six  o'clock." 

Ann  Lizy  continued  to  drag  herself  slowly 
forward,  but  she  made  no  reply. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  " 

Ann  Lizy  crooked  her  arm  around  her  face 
and  began  to  cry.  Her  grandmother  reached 
down,  took  her  by  the  shoulder,  and  led  her 
into  the  house.  "  What  on  airth  is  the  matter, 
child  .?  "  said  she ;  "  have  you  fell  down  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"What  does  ail  you  then? — Ann  Lizy  Jen- 
nings, how  come  that  great  three-cornered  tear 
in  your  best  dress  ?  " 

Ann  Lizy  sobbed. 

"  Answer  me." 

"I  —  tore  it  gittin'  over — the  wall." 

"  What  were  you  gettin'  over  walls  for  in  your 
best  dress  ?  I  'd  like  to  know  what  you  s'pose 
you  '11  have  to  wear  to  meetin'  now.  Did  n't  I 
tell  you  not  to  get  over  walls  in  your  best  dress  ? 
—  A?ui  Lizy  Jetinmgs,  where  is  my  bead  bag?  " 

"I— lost  it." 

"  Lost  my  bead  bag  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  How  did  you  lose  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  lost  it  when  —  I  was  lookin'  for  —  my 

"  Did  you  lose  your  patchwork  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 


"  When  I  was  —  goin'  over  to — Jane's." 

"  Lost  it  out  of  the  bag  ?  " 

Ann  Lizy  nodded,  sobbing. 

"  Then  you  went  to  look  for  it  and  lost  the  bag. 
Lost  your  best  pocket-handkerchief  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Old  Mrs.  Jennings  stood  looldng  at  Ann  Lizy. 

"All  that  patchwork,  cut  out  and  basted  jest 
as  nice  as  could  be,  your  best  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  my  bead  bag  lost,  and  your  meetin' 




dress  tore,"  said  she ;  "  well,  you  've  done  about 
enough  for  one  day.  Take  off  your  things  and 
go  upstairs  to  bed.  You  can't  go  over  to  Jane 
Baxter's  again  for  one  spell,  and  every  mite  of 
the  patchwork  that  goes  into  the  quilt  you  've 
got  to  cut  by  a  thread,  and  baste  yourself,  and 
to-morrow  you  've  got  to  hunt  for  that  patch- 
work and  that  bag  till  you  find  'em,  if  it  takes 
you  all  day.     Go  right  along." 

Ann  Lizy  took  off  her  hat,  and  climbed  meekly 
upstairs,  and  went  to  bed.  She  did  not  say  her 
pra)'ers ;  she  lay  there  and  wept.  It  was  about 
half-past  eight,  the  air  coming  through  the  open 
window  was  loud  with  frogs,  and  katydids,  and 
whippoorwills,  and  the  twilight  was  very  deep, 
when  Ann  Lizy  arose  and  crept  downstairs. 
She  could  barely  see  her  way. 

There  was  a  candle  lighted  in  the  south  room, 
and  her  grandmother  sat  there  knitting.  Ann 
Lizy,  a  piteous  litdc  figure  in  her  white  night- 
gown, stood  in  the  door. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  her  grandmother  .said,  in 
a  severe  voice  that  had  a  kindly  inflection  in  it. 

"  Grandma  —  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  lost  my  patchwork  on  purpose.  I  did  n't 
want  —  to  sew  it." 

"  Lost  your  patchwork  on  purpose  !  " 

"  Yes  —  ma'am,"  sobbed  Ann  Lizy. 

"  Let  it  drop  out  of  the  bag  on  purpose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  you  did  a  dreadful  wicked  thing  then. 
Go  right  back  to  bed." 

Ann  Lizy  went  back  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  Re- 
morse no  longer  gnawed  keenly  enough  at  her 
clear  childish  conscience  to  keep  her  awake, 
now  her  sin  was  confessed.  She  said  her  pray- 
ers and  Nvent  to  sleep.  Although  the  next 
morning  the  reckoning  came,  the  very  worst 
punishment  was  over  for  her.  Her  grand- 
mother held  the  judicious  use  of  the  rod  to  be 
a  part  of  her  duty  toward  her  beloved  litde  or- 
phan granddaughter,  so  she  switched  Ann  Lizy 
with  a  little  rod  of  birch  and  sent  her  forth  full 
of  salutary  tinglings  to  search  for  the  bead  bag 
and  the  patchwork.  All  the  next  week  Ann 
Lizy  searched  the  fields  and  road  for  the  miss- 
ing articles,  when  she  was  not  cutting  calico 
patchwork  by  a  thread  and  sewing  over  and 
over.     It  seemed  to  her  that  life  was  made  up 

of  those  two  occupations,  but  at  the  end  of  a 
week  the  search,  so  far  as  the  bead  bag  was 
concerned,  came  to  an  end. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  the  parson's  wife 
called  on  old  Mrs.  Jennings.  The  sweet,  gen- 
tle young  lady  in  her  black  silk  dress,  her  pink 
cheeks,  and  smooth  waves  of  golden  hair 
gleaming  through  her  worked  lace  veil  entered 
the  north  room,  which  was  the  parlor,  and  sat 
down  in  the  rocking-chair.  Ann  Lizy  and  her 
grandmother  sat  opposite,  and  they  both  noticed 
at  the  same  moment  that  the  parson's  wife  held 
in  her  hand  —  the  bead  hag  ; 

Ann  Lizy  gave  a  little  involuntary  "oh";  her 
grandmother  shook  her  head  fiercely  at  her, 
and  the  parson's  wife  noticed  nothing.  She 
went  on  talking  about  the  pinks  out  in  the  yard, 
in  her  lovely  low  voice. 

As  soon  as  she  could,  old  Mrs.  Jennings 
excused  herself  and  beckoned  Ann  Lizy  to  fol- 
low her  out  of  the  room.  Then,  while  she  was 
arranging  a  square  of  pound-cake  and  a  little 
glass  of  elderberry  wine  on  a  tray,  she  charged 
Ann  Lizy  to  say  nothing  about  the  bead  bag  to 
the  parson's  wife.  "  Mind  you  act  as  if  you 
did  n't  see  it,"  said  she;  "  don't  sit  there  lookin' 
at  it  that  way." 

"  But  it  's  your  bead  bag.  Grandma,"  said 
Ann  Lizy  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"  Don't  you  say  anything,"  admonished  her 
grandmother.  "  Now  carry  this  tray  in,  and  be 
careful  you  don't  spill  the  elderberry  wine." 

Poor  Ann  Lizy  tried  her  best  not  to  look  at 
the  bead  bag,  while  the  parson's  wife  ate  pound- 
cake, sipped  the  elderberry  wine,  and  conversed 
in  her  sweet,  gracious  way ;  but  it  did  seem 
finally  to  her  as  if  it  were  the  bead  bag  instead 
of  the  parson's  wife  that  was  making  the  call. 
She  kept  wondering  if  the  parson's  wife  would 
not  say,  "  Mrs.  Jennings,  is  this  your  bead 
bag  ?  "  but  she  did  not.  She  made  the  call  and 
took  leave,  and  the  bead  bag  was  never  men- 
tioned. It  was  odd,  too,  that  it  was  not;  for 
the  parson's  wife,  who  had  found  the  bead  bag, 
had  taken  it  with  her  on  her  round  of  calls  that 
afternoon,  partly  to  show  it  and  find  out,  if  she 
could,  who  had  lost  it.  But  here,  it  was  driven 
out  of  her  mind  by  the  pound-cake  and  elder- 
berry wine,  or  else  she  did  not  think  it  likely 
that  an  old  lady  like  Mrs.  Jennings  could  have 




owned  the  bag.  Younger  ladies  than  she 
usually  carried  them.  However  it  was,  she 
went  away  with  the  bag. 

"  Why  did  n't  she  ask  if  it  was  yours  ?  "  in- 
quired Ann  Lizy,  indignant  in  spite  of  her  ad- 
miration for  the  parson's  wife. 

"  Hush,"  said  her  grandmother.  "  You  mind 
you  don't  say  a  word  out  about  this,  Ann  Lizy. 
I  ain't  never  carried  it,  and  she  did  n't  suspect." 

Now,  the  bead  bag  was  found  after  this  un- 
satisfactory fashion ;  but  Ann  Lizy  never  went 
down  the  road  without  looking  for  the  patch- 
work. She  never  dreamed  how  little  Sally  Put- 
nam, the  minister's  wife's  niece,  was  in  the 
mean  time  sewing  these  four  squares  over  and 
over,  getting  them  ready  to  go  into  her  quilt. 
It  was  a  month  later  before  she  found  it  out, 
and  it  was  strange  that  she  discovered  it  at  all. 

It  so  happened  that,  one  afternoon  in  the 
last  of  August,  old  Mrs.  Jennings  dressed  her- 
self in  her  best  black  bombazine,  her  best  bonnet 
and  mantilla  and  mitts,  and  also  dressed  Ann 
Lizy  in  her  best  muslin  delaine,  exquisitely 
mended,  and  set  out  to  make  a  call  on  the  par- 
son's wife.  When  they  arrived  they  found  a 
chaise  and  white  horse  out  in  the  parsonage  yard, 
and  the  parson's  wife's  sister  and  family  there 
on  a  visit.  An  old  lady,  Mrs.  White,  a  friend 
of  Mrs.  Jennings's,  was  also  making  a  call. 

Little  Ann  Lizy  and  Sally  Putnam  were  in- 
troduced to  each  other,  and  Ann  Lizy  looked 
admiringly  at  Sally's  long  curls  and  low-necked 
dress,  which  had  gold  catches  in  the  sleeves. 
They  sat  and  smiled  shyly  at  each  other. 

"  Show  Ann  Lizy  your  patchwork,  Sally," 
the  parson's  wife  said  presently.  "  Sally  has 
got  almost  enough  patchwork  for  a  quilt,  and 
she  has  brought  it  over  to  show  me,"  she  added. 

Ann  Lizy  colored  to  her  little  slender  neck ; 
patchwork  was  nowadays  a  sore  subject  with 
her,  but  she  looked  on  as  Sally,  proud  and 
smiling,  displayed  her  patchwork. 

Suddenly  she  gave  a  little  cry.  There  was 
one  of  her  squares !  The  calico  with  roses  on 
a  green  ground  w-as  in  Sally's  patchwork. 

Her  grandmother  shook  her  head  energetic- 
ally at  her,  but  old  Mrs.  White  had  on  her 
spectacles,  and  she,  too,  had  spied  the  square. 

"  Why,  Miss   Jennings,"  she  cried,  "  that  's 
jest  like  that  dress  you  had  so  long  ago !  " 
Vol  XVII.— 7. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Sally's  mother  quickly. 
"  Why,  yes ;  that  is  the  very  square  you  found, 
Sally.  That  is  one;  there  were  four  of  them, 
all  cut  and  basted.  Why,  this  little  girl  did  n't 
lose  them,  did  she  ?  " 

Then  it  all  came  out.  The  parson's  wife  was 
quick-witted,  and  she  thought  of  the  bead  bag. 
Old  Mrs.  Jennings  was  polite,  and  said  it  did 
not  matter ;  but  when  she  and  Ann  Lizy  went 
home,  they  had  the  bead  bag,  with  the  patch- 
work and  the  best  pocket-handkerchief  in  it. 

It  had  been  urged  that  little  Sally  Putnam 
should  keep  the  patchwork,  since  she  had 
sewed  it,  but  her  mother  was  not  wilhng. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  this  poor  little  girl  lost  it, 
and  Sally  must  n't  keep  it ;  it  would  n't  be  right." 

Suddenly  Ann  Lizy  straightened  herself  Her 
cheeks  were  blazing  red,  but  her  black  eyes 
were  brave. 

"  I  lost  that  patchwork  on  purpose,"  said 
she.  "  I  did  n't  want  to  sew  it.  Then  I  lost 
the  bag   while  I  was  lookin'  for  it." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute. 

"You  area  good  girl  to  tell  of  it,"  said  Sally's 
mother,  finally. 

Ann  Lizy's  grandmother  shook  her  head 
meaningly  at  Mrs.   Putnam. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  she.  "  Own- 
in'-up  takes  away  so}nc  of  the  sin,  but  it  don't 

But  when  she  and  Ann  Lizy  were  on  their 
homeward  road,  she  kept  glancing  down  at  her 
granddaughter's  small  face.  It  struck  her  that 
it  was  not  so  plump  and  rosy  as  it  had  been. 

"  I  think  you  've  had  quite  a  lesson  by  this 
time  about  that  patchwork,"  she  remarked. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ann  Lizy. 

They  walked  a  little  farther.  The  golden- 
rod  and  the  asters  were  in  blossom  now,  and 
the  road  was  bordered  with  waving  fringes  of 
blue  and  gold.  They  came  in  sight  of  Jane 
Baxter's  house. 

"You  may  stop  in  Jane  Baxter's,  if  you  want 
to,"  .said  old  Mrs.  Jennings,  "and  ask  her 
mother  if  she  can  come  over  and  spend  the 
day  with  you  to-morrow.  And  tell  her  I  say 
she  'd  better  not  bring  her  sewing,  and  she  'd 
better  not  wear  her  best  dress,  for  you  and 
she  ain't  goin'  to  sew  anv,  and  mebbe  you  '11 
like  to  go  berryin',  and  play  outdoors." 



•;  ill-';  T  r 

■■■'     ■         v^...'/         \\     1'"     "''         '^' 

THE    PRINCE    AND    THE     BREWER'S    SON.* 

By  Elizabeth  Balch. 

BEAUTIFUL    old    place    called 
Hinchingbrooke,    situated   near 
the  ancient  town  of  Hunting- 
don, was  in  a  flutter  of  ex- 
citement one  bright  sunny 
morning  two  hundred  and 
eighty-six  years  ago,  in  the  year  1603. 

King  James  I.  of  England,  with  a  large  retinue 
of  the  nobles  of  his  court,  was  to  visit  the  more 
distant  possessions  of  his  kingdom  ;  and  in  order 
to  break  the  journey  from  London  to  the  north, 
a  ver\- long  and  trying  one  in  those  da\s,  he  had 
announced  his  royal  will  and  pleasure  that  a 
halt  should  be  made  over  night  at  Hinching- 
brooke, a  favorite  resting-place  for  the  sovereigns 
of  that  time  when  making  a  "royal  progress," 
as  their  journeys  were  generally  called. 

With  the  King  was  to  come  the  little  Prince 
Charles,  a  delicate  boy  four  years  old,  and  this 
fact  had  gi\en  old  Sir  Henry  Cromwell,  the 
"  Golden  Knight,"  who  was  the  owner  of  Hinch- 
ingbrooke, more  anxiety  than  anything  else  con- 
nected with  the  royal  visit. 

'•  His  Majesty  can  ride  and  hunt,  and  amuse 
himself  with  the  noble  game  of  chess,  or  with 
the  sprightly  conversation  of  the  fair  dames  who 
will  be  only  too  proud  to  entertain  him ;  but 
how  we  are  to  amuse  a  baby  jjrince,  is  more 
than  I  can  imagine." 

To  every  one  he  met  the  good  knight  would 
repeat  this  dismal  exclamation;  but  at  last  a 
happy  thought  came  to  his  mind,  and  summon- 
ing a  lad,  he  hastily  penned  a  few  lines,  and 
bade  the  page  cany  them  to  his  son,  Robert  the 
brewer,  in  the  town  of  Huntingdon. 

"  Be  off  wdth  you,"  the  knight  cried  cheerily 
to  the  page,  "  and  let  not  the  weeds  grow  be- 
tween the  stones  of  the  old  wall  before  you  are 
back  again  with  grandson  Oliver,"  Oliver  was 
a  little  boy  not  much  older  than  the  prince  him- 

As  the  page  quickly  sped  away  upon  his  er- 
rand, a  well-satisfied  expression  came  over  the 
countenance  of  the  doughty  knight,  and  he 
rubbed  his  hands  contentedly  together  while 
he  mused  to  himself  aloud. 

*  The  illustrations  of  Hinchingbrooke  House,  and  of  the  old  Gateway,  are  drawn,  by  permission, from  photographs 

by  A.  Maddison,  Esq.,  Huntingdon,  England. 



"  Not  so  badly  devised,  by  my  troth.  The 
lads  may  take  kindly  to  one  another,  and  if 
Oliver  makes  a  friend  of  the  little  Charles — who 
knows? — a  king's  son  is  not  half  a  bad  friend 
for  a  young  fellow  to  have." 

Flags  were  flying  from  the  towers  and  battle- 
ments of  Hinchingbrooke,  while  the  royal  stand- 
ard of  England  floated  proudly  above  the  gray 
old  buildings  which  formerly  had  been  a  nunnery-; 
and  in  the  spot  where  holy  women  once  had 
prayed,  soldiers  in  gay  uniforms  now  laughed 
and  joked,  while  richly  dressed  courtiers  and 
numberless  attendants  crowded  the  court-yards 
and  corridors,  and  horses  in  rich  trappings  filled 
the  stables.      Every  part  of  the  establishment 

the  grand  old  trees,  where  perhaps  the  warmth 
of  the  golden  sunshine  might  bring  a  more  gen- 
erous color  into  the  pallid  face. 

In  striking  contrast  to  the  delicate  prince  was 
the  lad  Oliver.  Strong  and  sturdy,  with  bright 
red  cheeks  and  a  round  fat  face  healthily  browned 
by  fresh  country  air,  he  came  gravely  and  slowly 
through  the  old  arched  gateway,  not  in  the  least 
intimidated  by  the  glittering  uniforms  and  gay 
attire  of  all  these  grand  people,  and  quietly  ad- 
vanced to  the  spot  where  the  King  stood,  hold- 
ing the  hand  of  the  little  Charles. 

Sir  Henry,  the  "  Golden  Knight,"  with  a  deep 
reverence  to  his  sovereign,  presented  his  grand- 
son Oliver.    The  baby  prince  took  off  his  velvet 



'BE    OFF     WITH    YOU,      THE     KNIGHT    CRIED    CHEERILY    TO    THE     PAGE, 

.showed  signs  of  unusual  life  and  excitement,  all  hat  with  its  long  white  plume,  and  bowed  gra- 

being  anxious  that  the  King  should  be  pleased,  ciously  to  the  boy  who  looked  so  strong  and 

and  that  the  pale  little  prince,  who  looked  so  healthy,  yet  who  was  so  curiously  grave.    Oliver 

fragile  and  delicate,  should  play  happily  under  could  not  bow    in    a   courtly  way  as  Charles 




did,  but  only  went  awkwardly  forward,  when  his 
grandfather,  placing  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
tried  to  make  him  bend  his  short,  fat  legs  before 
youthful  royalty. 

The  King  with  one  hand  patted  the  closely 

-.i3ra«,,.».'.«.X...i~.. '  Y.} 

THE    PET    MONKEV    AND     THE     BABV. 

cropped  head  of  the  knight's  grandson,  while 
the  other  rested  on  the  golden  curls  of  the  baby 
Charles,  his  heir,  and  with  a  cheery  smile  he 
bade  the  boys  go  play  together,  and  told  them 
to  be  friendly  one  with  another. 

Holding  out  his  tiny  hand  to  the  silent,  sturdy 
Oliver,  the  litde  prince  clasped  the  other's  strong, 
brown  fingers  in  childish  confidence,  and  the 
two  passed  out  under  the  gray  stone  gateway 
■with  its  carved  figures  of  ancient  Britons  sup- 
porting the  arch.  Out  they  went  into  the  lovely 
park  beyond,  where  the  sunshine  danced  merrily 
in  and  out  among  the  branches  of  the  trees, 

playing  hide-and-seek  with  the  quivering  leaves, 
and  the  grass  was  spread  out  like  a  soft  green 
carpet,  upon  which  the  children  could  play  as 
merrily  as  the  birds  above  them  sang. 

The  attendants  talked  among  themselves,  cast- 
ing glances  every  now  and  then  toward  the 
daintily  clad  little  prince,  whose  curls  were  shin- 
ing like  gold  in  the  sunshine,  and  whose  pale 
cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure  as  the  other  boy 
told  of  the  rabbits  which  sometimes  ran  across 
the  park,  and  promised  that,  if  the  litde  visitor 
would  keep  very  still,  some  of  these  rabbits  would 
surely  come,  and  then  they  could  jump  at  them, 
frighten  them,  and  chase  them  across  the  grass. 

Young  princes  are  not  taught  to  be  patient, 
and  Charles  soon  tired  of  waiting  quietly  for  the 
rabbits.  He  proposed  that  Oliver  should  be 
harnessed  with  some  fine  silk  reins  and  driven 
with  a  silver-mounted  whip  which  was  among 
the  toys  the  prince's  attendants  had  brought 
from  London. 

But  Oliver  was  unwilling  to  be  harnessed  and 
flatly  refused  to  be  whipped.  Unused  to  opposi- 
tion, the  prince  grew  petulant  and,  at  last,  in  a 
teasing  way,  half  struck  young  Oliver  across  the 
shoulders  with  the  lash  of  the  new  whip. 

Oliver's  brown  face  grew  crimson,  and  doub- 
ling his  fist  in  a  threatening  manner,  he  turned 
upon  the  royal  child  saying  angrily: 

"  You  shall  riarr  drive  me,  nor  whip  me  with 
your  stupid  little  whip !  I  will  not  allow  it !  " 
And  then,  before  the  prince  could  answer,  the 
angry  boy  struck  him  full  in  the  face  with  his 
clenched  fist.  A  moment  later  the  attendants, 
startled  by  loud  cries,  came  running  up,  and  were 
horrified  to  see  the  blood  streaming  from  the 
prince's  nose  over  his  pretty  lace  collar  and 
velvet  frock. 

Oliver  was  sent  home  to  Huntingdon  in  dis- 
grace, and  all  the  pleasant  visions  of  good  Sir 
Henry  faded  away,  for  surely  now  his  grandson 
could  never  make  a  friend  of  Charles  Stuart. 

And  yet,  many  great  things  had  been  pre- 
dicted for  the  boy.  When  he  was  an  infant 
asleep  in  his  cradle,  one  summer  day  at  Hinch- 
ingbrooke,  a  pet  monkey  had  crept  into  the 
room,  and,  carefully  lifting  up  the  baby  from  his 
bed,  had  carried  him  to  the  roof  of  the  house. 
All  the  household  were  terrified,  and  quickly 
brought  beds  and  mattresses,  that  the  child  might 



fall  unharmed  should  the  monkey  drop  him.  The 
sagacious  animal,  however,  brought  the  little 
fellow  safe  back  again.  But  had  he  dropped  the 
baby  over  the  stone  battlements  upon  the  rough 
ground  below,  the  fate  of  King  Charles  might 
have  been  a  very  different  one. 

The  wise  men  of  the  day  professed  to  believe 
that  this  extraordinary  adventure  \\'ith  the  monkey 
was  a  sign  that  the  child  would  do  great  things ; 
and  when,  some  years  later,  Oliver  insisted 
that  in  a  dream  he  had  seen  a  tall  man  who 
came  to  his  bedside,  and,  opening  the  curtains 

of  his  bed,  told  him  he  should  one  day  be  the 
greatest  person  in  the  kingdom,  these  wise  men 
were  more  than  ever  con\inced  that  a  great 
future  was  in  store  for  the  remarkable  boy.  His 
father  told  him  that  it  was  wicked,  as  well  as 
foolish,  to  make  such  an  assertion,  for  it  was  dis- 
lo)'al  to  the  King  to  even  hint  that  a  greater 
than  he  could  exist  in  the  land ;  but  Oliver  still 
persisted  in  saying  that  the  vision  was  true,  add- 
ing that  the  tall  figure  had  not  said  that  he 
should  be  King,  but  only  "  the  greatest  person 
in  the  kingdom."    So  vexed  was  his  father  with 





him  about  this  silly  tale,  that  he  told  Dr.  Beard, 
the  Master  of  the  free  grammar-school  which 
Oliver  attended  in  Huntingdon,  to  punish  him 
well,  and  see  whether  flogging  would  not  drive 
these  foolish  ideas  out  of  his  head.  Even  after 
floggings,  however,  the  boy  continued  at  times 
to  repeat  the  story  to  his  uncle  Steward,  although 
his  uncle  also  told  him  that  it  was  little  less 
than  traitorous  to  relate  the  prophecy. 

While  Oliver  was  at  this  grammar-school,  ac- 
cording to  ancient  custom  a  play  was  acted  by 
the  pupils.  The  one  chosen  was  an  old  comedy 
called  "  Lingua,"  and  no  part  in  it  would  satisfy 
Oliver  Cromwell  save  that  of  "Tactus,"  who 
had  to  enact  a  scene  in  which  a  crown  and 
other  regalia  are  discovered.  This  scene  seemed 
peculiarly  to  fascinate  him. 

During  this  period,  when  Oliver's  mind  was 
thus  dwelling  upon  mimic  crowns,  the  boy  whom 
he  had  once  struck  that  hasty  blow  under  the 
shady  trees  at  Hinchingbrooke,  had  become  heir 
to  a  real  crown,  by  the  death  of  his  elder  brother 
Prince  Henry. 

Having  now  grown  from  a  sickly  child  to  be 
a  high-spirited,  handsome  youth,  with  his  friend 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham  he  had  traveled  to 
Spain  in  search  of  adventure,  and  also  in  order 
to  see  the  young  Spanish  princess  whom  the 
King,  his  father,  wished  him  to  marry.  On  their 
way  the  two  j-oung  men  stopped  in  Paris.  There, 
at  a  masked  ball,  they  saw  the  lovely  Henrietta 
Maria,  sister  of  the  French  king ;  and  after  this 
there  was  no  possibility  that  the  Spanish  Infanta 
should  become  Queen  of  England,  for  Prince 
Charles  could  not  forget  the  fair  face  of  the 
French  beauty ;  and  in  course  of  time  Henrietta 
Maria  became  his  wife. 

All  this  time  the  boy  Oliver,  also  grown  to 
man's  estate,  lived  on  in  the  quiet  town  of  Hunt- 
ingdon, near  the  beautiful  jiark  where  he  had 
played  with  the  baby  prince,  and  where  he  had 
refused  so  stoutly  to  be  the  child's  horse,  and  to 
be  driven  with  the  silken  reins  and  the  whip  with 
the  silver  bells. 

The  good  old  grandfather,  the  "  Golden 
Knight "  Sir  Henry  Cromwell,  was  dead  and 
buried,  long  since,  and  could  no  more  rebuke 
his  grandson  for  his  hasty,  unjdelding  temper. 
There  had  been  another  roj-al  visit  to  Hinch- 
ingbrooke, with  great  feastings  and  ceremonials ; 

but  it  was  Oliver  Cromwell  (not  the  boy  Oliver, 
but  a  son  of  the  doughty  knight.  Sir  Henry) 
who  now  reigned  over  the  lordly  house  and 
lands,  and  this  time  the  King  had  come  without 
the  prince,  and  the  two  bo)-s  who  once  fought 
under  the  shade  of  the  branching  oaks  were  pur- 
suing each  his  own  life,  little  dreaming  how  those 
lives  should  influence  one  another. 

It  was  while  the  King  was  at  Hinchingbrooke, 
upon  his  second  visit,  that  Oliver  Cromwell's 
father,  the  brewer  Robert,  lay  grievously  sick, 
"  somewhat  indifterent  to  royal  progresses,"  and 
in  1 6 1 7  he  died,  leaving  his  son  —  then  about 
eighteen  —  as  head  of  the  little  household  at 
Huntingdon.  Not  long  after,  Oliver  also,  as 
well  as  Prince  Charles,  brought  home  a  smiling 
young  wife,  and  as  the  years  passed  on  baby 
children  played  under  the  trees  where  he  and 
the  little  prince  had  played  —  but  let  us  hope 
there  were  neither  doubled  fists  nor  bleeding 

While  Charles's  life  was  a  gay  and  stirring  one, 
Oliver's  was  grave  and  quiet,  and  Oliver  himself 
grew  more  and  more  solemn  and  silent,  and 
finally  he  and  other  serious-thinking  men  decided 
that  the  King  was  a  tyrant ;  the  country,  he 
thought,  would  be  better  without  him,  and  he 
joined  these  other  discontented  ones  who  thought 
the  same,  and  who  determined  to  make  war 
against  Charles,  and  the  too  merry,  careless  life 
which  they  thought  he  was  leading. 

Sometime  before,  while  yet  a  boy,  Oliver  had 
fallen  into  the  river  Ouse,  which  runs  sleepily 
by  the  old  town  of  Huntingdon;  and  the  curate 
of  a  church  near  by,  in  the  village  of  Conning- 
ton,  who  was  walking  on  the  river-bank  at  the 
time,  pulled  him  out  of  the  water,  and  saved 
his  life.  Afterward,  when  Cromwell  marched 
through  this  town  at  the  head  of  his  troops, 
going  to  fight  Charles  Stuart,  he  saw  and  rec- 
ognized the  curate  who  had  been  his  rescuer, 
and  asked,   smilingly: 

"  Do  you  not  remember  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  loyal  curate ;  "  but  I 
wish  I  had  put  you  in  the  river  rather  than  have 
seen  you  in  arms  against  the  King  1  " 

Cromwell  thought  it  right  to  overturn  the 
throne,  and  he  did  so.  Whether  his  acts  were  all 
inspired  by  a  desire  to  carry  out  the  will  of  a 
Supreme  Being,  as  he  asserted  them  to  be,  is  to 




this  day  a  disputed    point  of  history  and  will  dream,  and  the  vision  of  the  tall  man  beside  his 

probably  remain  so  until  the  end  of  time.  bed  who  promised  that  he  should  become  the 

In  1627,  beautiful  Hinchingbrooke  passed  out  "  greatest  man  in  the  kingdom  " ;  and  ambition 

of  the  hands  of  the  Cromwells,  and  became  the  may  have  tempted  him  along  the  bold  path  he 

home  of  the  noble  family  of  Montague ;    and,  had  chosen.     Perhaps  he  thought  that  he  was 

some    four   years    later,   Oliver    Cromwell   left  really  doing  right  in  thus  trying  to  make  away 

Huntingdon  and  went  to  live  at  St.  Ives,  where  with  the  authority  of  the  King  —  who  can  tell? 


can  still  be  seen  the  bridge  across  the  Ouse  about 
which  was  written  the  quaint  old  puzzle : 

"  As  I  was  going  to  St.  Ives, 
I  met  a  man  with  seven  wives  ; 
Every  wife  had  seven  sacks; 
Every  sack  had  seven  cats ; 
Every  cat  had  seven  kits. 
Kits,  cats,  sacks,  and  wives. 
How  many  were  there  going  to  .St.  Ives?  " 

During  many  weary  years  the  struggle  went 
on  between  King  Cliarles  and  his  Parliament  — 
Oliver  Cromwell  joining  with  the  latter,  and  be- 
coming one  of  the  principal  opponents  of  his 
sovereign.   Perhaps  he  thought  of  his  boyhood's 

It  is  always  difficult  to  understand  men's  motives. 
Certain  it  is  that  the  royal  cause  went  from  bad 
to  worse  ;  the  army  of  Charles  was  defeated  and 
repulsed  on  every  side,  and  the  army  of  the 
Parliament,  to  which  Cromwell  belonged,  was 
triumphant  everywhere. 

Poor  King  Charles!  He  was  no  longer  gay 
and  happy,  but  sad  and  very  miserable.  His 
Queen  secretly  left  England,  and  in  a  foreign 
country  sold  the  beautiful  crown-jewels  which 
had  been  worn  at  so  many  splendid  fetes  and 
entertainments,  in  order  to  obtain  money  for  her 
husband's  soldiers.  But  it  was  all  of  no  use ;  the 
Parliament,  with  Oliver  Cromwell  at  the  head 



of  its  armies,  finally  conquered,  and  at  last  the 
King  himself  fell  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies 
and  was  held  a  prisoner.  And  now  Cromwell 
determined  that  Charles  Stuart,  with  whom  he 
had  once  played  as  a  little  boy,  should  die. 

Before  his  death  Charles  was  allowed  to  see 
his  children, —  the  two  at  least  who  were  in 
England  at  the  time, —  the  Princess  Elizabeth 
and  the  little  Duke  of  Gloucester.  After  sending 
a  message  by  his  daughter  to  his  wife,  Henrietta 
Maria,  whom  he  could  never  see  again,  the  King 
took  his  little  son  upon  his  knee  and  said  gravely 
to  him :  "  My  dear  heart,  they  will  soon  cut  off 
thy  father's  head.  Mark  it,  my  child,  they  will 
cut  off  thy  father's  head,  and  perhaps  make 
thee  a  king.  But,  mark  what  I  say,  thou  must 
not  be  a  king  so  long  as  thy  brothers  Charles 
and  James  live ;  therefore,  I  charge  thee,  do  not 
be  made  a  king  by  them."  The  brave  child 
replied,  "  I  will  be  torn  in  pieces  first )  "  Then 
the  unhappy  father  gave  the  two  his  blessing  and 
said  good-bye.  Even  the  stern  soldier  Oliver  was 
touched  by  the  grief  of  the  wretched  King  and 
of  the  poor  little  prince  and  princess,  who  knew 
that  they  should  never  again  sit  upon  their  father's 
knee,  or  hear  his  voice,  or  see  his  face,  .\fter  this 
came  a  dark  and  dreadful  day  when  the  King 
was  led  out  from  the  palace  of  Whitehall  to  die 
upon  a  scaffold. 

History  has  made  the  rest  of  the  story  familiar ; 
and  very  likely  many  of  you  have  read  the  war- 
rant ordering  the  execution  of  the  King,  and  have 
seen  among  the  first  of  the  signatures  to  it,  the 
name  of  the  King's  former  playmate,  the  son  of 
the  brewer  of  Huntingdon. 

As  Oliver  Cromwell  signed  his  name  in  firm, 
clear  characters  to  that  cruel  document,  did  he 
recall  the  sunshiny  day  at  lovely  Hinching- 
brooke,  and  the  pale  little  prince  who  had  held 
out  his  baby  hand  in  such  friendly  fashion,  and 
laughed  so  gleefully  when  the  sturdy,  brown- 
faced  boy,  with  whom  his  father  had  bid  him 
"  be  friends,"  told  of  the  rabbits  that  sometimes 
scampered  over  the  grass  under  the  spreading 
trees  ?  Or  did  he  remember  the  angry  words 
he  had  spoken  when  the  little  child  in  turn  had 
told  of  his  silken  reins,  and  his  whip  with  silver 
bells  ?  And  the  blow  he  had  dealt  which  made 
the  blood  flow  and  drew  forth  a  cry  of  pain  ? 
Then  the  cry  had  been  soon  hushed,  but  on  that 
gloomy  January  day,  in  1648,  the  King's  head 
lay  severed  from  his  body,  and  Charles  Stuart 
was  silent  for  ever. 

The  brewer's  son  continued  his  career  until  his 
dream  came  true ;  for  the  day  came  when  he  could 
write  his  name  as  "  Lord  Protector  of  the  Com- 
monwealth of  England,  Scodand,  and  Ireland." 

He  was  the  "  greatest  person  in  the  kingdom." 


By  Helen  Thaver  Hutcheson. 

Dainty  Allis,  here  's  a  cricket, 
Trim  and  nimble,  brave  and  bold. 

Caught  a-chirping  in  a  thicket, 
When  the  year  was  growing  old. 

He  's  a  patient  little  hummer. 

Though  he  only  knows  one  song ; 

He  's  been  practicing  all  summer, 
And  he  never  sings  it  wrong. 

He  was  piping  under  hedges 
After  all  the  birds  had  flown. 

Trilling  loud  from  stony  ledges, 
Making  merry,  all  alone. 

If  the  bearded  grasses  wavered 
Underneath  the  lightest  foot. 

His  sharp  murmur  sudden  quavered 
Into  silence  at  the  root. 

Now  the  cricket  comes  to  bring  you 
Cheery  thoughts  in  time  of  frost; 

And  a  summer  song  he  '11  sing  you 
When  the  summer  sunshine  's  lost. 

You  '11  be  listening  till  you  're  guessing 
Pleasant  meanings  in  the  sound. 

May  the  cricket's  good-night  blessing 
Bring  the  happy  dreams  around ! 

Many  and  many  a  year  hereafter 
You  will  hear  the  same  blithe  tune. 

For  though  you  should  outlive  laughter, 
Crickets  still  wOl  chirp  in  June. 

If  some  future  summer  passes 
Homesick,  in  a  foreign  land, 

There  '11  be  speech  among  the  grasses, 
That  your  heart  will  understand. 

As  you  listen  in  the  wild-wood 

To  that  merry  monotone, 
It  will  bring  you  back  your  childhood 

When  you  are  a  woman  grown. 

Vol.  XVII.— 8. 


By  Sophie  Swett. 

HILE  the  other 
boys  in  Bloom- 
boro'  were  saving 
up  their  pennies  to 
buy  whistles  and 
pop-guns  and  cara- 
mels, or  base-ball 
bats  and  bicycles, 
according  to  their 
various  ages  and 
tastes  or  to  the  seasons,  Tom  Pickemell  was 
always  saving  up  to  buy  tools.  Sometimes  they 
were  of  one  kind,  sometimes  of  another.  He 
had  bought  even  farming  tools,  although  he 
had  the  lowest  possible  opinion  of  farming. 
His  grandfather  seemed  to  think  that  farming 
was  the  chief  end  of  man;  he  was  determined 
that  Tom  should  be  a  farmer  whether  he  liked 
or  not ;  but  he  believed  in  good  old-fashioned 
ways,  and  refused  to  buy  any  "new-fangled" 
machinery.  Tom  argued  and  argued,  but  his 
grandfather  would  not  listen.  He  was  scornful  of 
all  Tom's  great  undertakings  in  the  mechanical 
line,  and  even  Grandma,  who  usually  had  some 
sympathy  with  a  boy,  laughed  until  she  cried  at 
his  idea  of  inventing  a  machine  which  should 
"instantly  separate  milk  into  its  component 
parts."  No  tedious  waiting  for  cream  to  rise, 
no  slow  and  back-aching  churning  process. 
(Tom  had  reason  to  feel  deeply  on  this  point.) 
Almost  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  milk,  as 
it  came  from  the  cow,  was  to  be  changed  into 
butter  and  buttermilk.  Cynthy,  the  hired  girl, 
said  it  was  "flyin'  in  the  face  of  Proverdunce 
to  talk  like  that,"  and  was  sure  that  a  boy  who 
did  n't  believe  in  churnin'  would  "  surely  turn 
out  an  infiddle." 

Tom  knew  that  the  great  creameries  had  im- 
proved upon  the  old-fashioned  chums,  but  their 
improvements  were  only  child's  play  compared 
to  what  he  meant  to  do.  He  kept  on  thinking 
over  his  plans,  and  experimenting  as  far  as  he 

could,  in  spite  of  every  one's  jeers,  although  he 
became  so  exasperated  sometimes,  when  people 
would  ?i't  understand  him,  that  he  would  lie 
down  on  his  face  in  tlie  pine  grove,  and  dig  his 
fingers  into  the  soil,  and  kick.  But  that  was 
when  he  was  younger.  He  was  fourteen  now, 
and  had  discovered  that  it  was  better  to  fight 
manfully  against  obstacles  than  to  kick  the 
empty  air.  He  had  also  begun  to  learn  that  he 
did  n't  know  so  much  as  he  thought  he  did; 
and  this  was  a  very  hopeful  sign  for  Tom,  for  it 
is  n't  taught  in  the  grammar-school  books,  and 
seems  to  be  a  neglected  branch  even  at  the 

He  had  begun  to  understand,  also,  why  he 
was  "  a  trial,"  as  Grandma  and  Cynthy  said. 
He  could  n't  see  but  that  a  boy  had  a  right  to 
take  things  to  pieces,  if  he  put  them  together 
again ;  but  sometimes,  quite  unexpectedly,  they 
failed  to  go  together  as  they  were  before.  This 
(as  in  the  case  of  the  alarm-clock,  and  Grandma's 
long-cherished  music-box)  was  annoying,  Tom 
candidly  acknowledged.  He  felt  so  unhappy 
about  those  failures,  that  he  forbore  to  remmd 
them,  when  they  scolded  him,  that  he  had 
made  Grandma's  worn-out  egg-beater  better 
than  when  it  was  new,  and  repaired  Cynthy's 
long-broken  accordion,  so  that  now  she  could 
enjoy  herself,  playing  and  singing  "Hark,  from 
the  Tombs,"  on  rainy  Sunday  evenings. 

It  was  a  discouraging  world,  in  Tom's  opinion, 
but  he  was,  nevertheless,  still  determined  to  in- 
vent, some  day.  The  Instantaneous  Butter-maker. 
Many,  many  times,  in  imagination,  he  had  gone 
over  all  the  details  of  a  wonderful  success  with 
that  invention,  even  to  Grandpa's  noble  and 
candid  confession  (generally  accompanied  by 
tears)  that  he  had  misunderstood  and  wronged 
Tom  ;  but  the  details  were  becoming  modified  as 
he  grew  older ;  he  had  begun  to  strongly  doubt 
whether  any  such  thing  could  ever  be  expected 
of  Grandpa.    There  had  been  a  schoolmaster  at 




Bloomboro'  for  one  winter,  who  held  the  con- 
soUng  beUef  that  a  boy  might  not  be  akogether 
a  dunce  although  he  was  so  "  mixed  up  "  in 
geography  as  to  declare  that  Constantinople 
was  the  capital  of  Indiana,  and  was  unable  to 
regard  English  grammar  as  anything  but  a  hope- 
less conundrum.  Out  of  school  he  taught  Tom 
geometry,  and  was  astonished  at  his  quickness. 
He  even  confided  to  Grandpa  that  he  should 
not  be  surprised  if  Tom  turned  out  a  genius. 

But  this  had  anything  but  the  desired  effect 
upon  Grandpa ;  for  to  his  mind  a  genius  was  an 
out-at-elbows  fellow  who  played  on  the  fiddle, 
and  eventually  came  to  the  poor-house.  Grand- 
ma's idea  was  even  worse  :  she  said  that  if 
Tom's  father  had  lived  he  would  know  how  to 
bring  Tom  up  so  that  he  would  n't  turn  out  a 
genius,  but  she  was  afraid  they  should  n't ; — 
she  thought  it  all  came  of  his  mother  being 
a  Brown. 

But  Grandma  was  too  kind  and  sympathetic  to 
be  hard  upon  a  boy,  as  Grandpa  was.  She  laughed 
at  him,  and  sometimes  sighed  dreadfully, — that 
was  almost  the  hardest  thmg  for  Tom  to  bear, — 
and  occasionally  confided  privately  to  Grandpa 
that  she  "was  n't  -going  to  believe  but  that 
Tom  would  turn  out  as  well  as  any  boy,  he  was 
so  kind-hearted  and  affectionate;  and  as  for 
smartness,  what  other  boy  could  make  a  fox- 
trap  out  of  his  own  head?  "  Sly  Grandma  knew 
that  Grandpa  valued  that  fo.x-trap  because  it  was 
useful  on  the  farm,  and  so  she  kept  it  in  remem- 
brance. Tom  had  no  sjinpathizers  among  the 
boys.  He  hked  Jo  \Mupple  best  of  any,  but 
Jo  was  a  famous  scholar;  he  could  recite  whole 
pages  of  histor)'  without  missing  a  word;  in  dates 
you  could  seldom  catch  him  tripping;  he  could 
see  sense  in'  grammar,  and  he  was  going  to  study 
Greek  with  the  minister.  And  Tom  shrewdly 
suspected  that  Jo  secredy  thought  him  a  fool. 
Jed  Appleby  was  the  only  boy  in  Bloomboro' 
who  had  any  interest  in  Tom's  favorite  pursuits, 
and  Tom  had  painful  doubts  of  his  honesty  and 
thought  Jed  meant  to  steal  his  inventions.  So  it 
happened  that  when  Tom  wished  for  that  sym- 
pathy which  is  a  necessity  to  most  of  us  he  was 
forced  to  seek  it  from  Caddy  Jane. 

Caddy  Jane  w^as  his  cousin,  and  she  was  an 
orphan,  too,  and  was  being  brought  up  by 
Grandpa  and  Grandma.    It  was  Tom's  opinion 

that  that  process  was  less  hard  upon  a  girl 
than  upon  a  boy  —  and  perhaps  he  was  right; 
nevertheless,  Caddy  Jane  had  her  private 
griefs.  Grandma  dressed  her  as  little  girls  were 
dressed  when  she  was  }'Oung,  and  the  other  girls 
jeered  at  her  pantalettes.  Then,  too,  Grandma 
did  n't  approve  of  banged  hair;  she  said  Na- 
ture had  given  Caddy  Jane  "  a  beautiful  high 
forehead,"  and  she  was  n't  going  to  have  it 
spoiled;  so  she  parted  Caddy's  hair  in  the  middle 
and  strained  it  back  as  tightly  as  possible  into 
the  tightest  of  little  braids  at  the  back.  Tom 
wondered,  sometimes,  with  a  sense  of  the  hol- 
lowness  of  Ufe,  if  it  were  not  that  straining  back 
of  her  hair  which  gave  Caddy  Jane's  eyes  the 
round,  wide-open  look  which  he  took  for  won- 
der and  admiration,  when  he  showed  her  his 
machinery  or  told  her  his  plans.  It  was  cer- 
tainly quite  doubtful  whether  Caddy  Jane  under- 
stood, at  all.  Tom,  in  his  heart,  suspected  her  of 
being  a  very  stupid  little  thing,  but  she  had  this 
agreeable  way  of  looking  with  round-eyed,  open- 
mouthed  wonder  at  one's  productions,  and 
would  listen  silently  and  with  apparent  interest 
to  the  longest  outpouring  of  one's  interests  and 
plans ;  and  if  this  is  not  sympathy  it  is  certainly 
not  a  bad  substitute  for  it.  And  if  Caddy  Jane 
was  a  little  stupid,  well, —  it  would  be  uncom- 
fortable not  to  be  able  to  feel  superior  to  a  girl, 
Tom  thought;  and  if  she  had  been  quick  at  her 
lessons  he  knew  he  should  not  have  hked  her  half 
so  much.  Caddy  Jane  not  only  found  geography 
hard,  but  she  was  struggling  with  skepticisms  as 
well.  She  did  not  believe  that  the  earth  was 
round,  because,  if  it  were,  why  did  not  the  China- 
men fall  off?  Once  when  Grandpa  had  taken 
her  with  him  to  market,  at  Newtown,  she  had 
slipped,  all  by  herself,  into  a  Chinaman's  laun- 
dry and  asked  him  if  he  could  walk  head  down- 
ward, like  a  fly,  and  the  Chinaman  had  positively 
disclaimed  any  such  abiUty.  This  (to  Caddy 
Jane's  mind  the  only  possible  solution  of  the 
m)-stery)  ha^ing  failed,  she  felt  that  there  was 
nothing  for  a  rational  mind  to  do  but  to  resign 
itself  to  a  bold  and  dreadful  doubt  of  the  Geog- 
raphy. This  seemed  so  reckless,  and  her  trouble 
was  so  great,  that  she  confided  in  Tom;  although 
she  was,  as  her  grandmother  said,  "  a  dreadful 
close-mouthed  little  thing."  The  doubt  grew 
still  more  painful  when  she  discovered,  through 




Tom's  jests  and  evasions,  that  he  knew  no  more 
about  it  than  she.  He  said  he  could  n't  stop  to 
explain  it,  and  a  girl  need  n't  bother  herself 
about  such  things,  but  she  might  ask  Jo  Whip- 
ple. To  Whipple!  —  who  made  most  unpleasant 
faces  at  her  through  a  hole  in  the  fence,  and 
whooped  dismally  in  the  dusk  while  she  ran 
across  the  field  to  carry  the  Scammons'  milk  1 
Caddy  Jane  felt  that  it  would  be  quite  impossi- 
ble to  ask  him,  and,  moreover,  she  did  n't  believe 
that  he  knew  any  more  than  Tom,  and  said  so, 
which  was  very  gratifying  to  Tom.  When  one 
is  conscious  of  being  generally  regarded  as  a 
dunce,  it  is  agreeable  to  have  even  a  silly  little 
thing  like  Caddy  Jane  believe  in  one.  So  Caddy 
Jane  was  a  real  consolation  to  Tom,  and  there 
was  no  drawback  to  the  pleasure  of  their  meet- 
ings, except  the  fact  that  Caddy  Jane's  boots 
were  almost  always  squeaky  (Grandma  believed 
in  good,  stout,  economical  ones),  and  Tom's  en- 
terprises were  so  strongly  disapproved  of  that 
he  was  obliged  to  carry  them  on  in  the  privac}- 
of  the  old  granary,  which  had  been  abandoned 
to  rats  and  mice  and  weather. 

It  made  a  great  stir  at  the  farm  when,  one  day, 
a  letter  came  from  Cousin  David  Creighton,  ask- 
ing if  his  wife  and  daughter  might  spend  the  sum- 
mer there.  He  was  going  to  Europe,  and  his 
wife  wanted  to  be  where  she  could  have  perfect 
rest  from  excitement  and  gayety,  and  he  wanted 
Dulcie  ("  that  is  the  little  girl,  I  suppose," 
Grandma  said,  adjusting  her  glasses  for  the 
twentieth  time  in  her  excitement  as  she  read  the 
letter,  "though  of  all  the  names  I  ever  heard 
of — ! ")  he  wanted  Dulcie  to  have  cows'  milk  and 
country  fare  generally,  and  to  get  acquainted 
with  Bloomboro',  where  he  had  been  a  boy. 

Cousin  David  Creighton  had  been  a  very 
poor  bov  in  Bloomboro'.  He  had  been  father- 
less and  motherless  and  homeless,  sheltered  here 
and  there,  where  any  one  would  have  him,  and 
"bound  out"  to  the  miller;  he  had  picked  ber- 
ries to  pay  for  his  \\'inter  shoes,  and  known  the 
physical  and  mental  trials  of  outgrown  jackets 
and  trousers.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  had  taken 
his  fortunes  into  his  own  hands,  and  slipped  away 
from  Bloomboro';  and  scarcely  any  one  cared  to 
inquire  where  he  had  gone,  and  for  years  no  one 
knew.  The  miller's  wife  had  a  theory  that  he 
had  died  of  overeating,  for  she  never  knew  a 

boy  to  have  such  an  appetite.  When  his  name 
began  to  appear  often  in  the  New  York  papers 
that  found  their  way  to  Bloomboro',  the  old  men 
would  look  at  one  another  and  wonder  if  it 
could  be  the  one.  The  doubt  was  ended  when 
a  commercial  traveler,  who  knew  all  about  David 
Creighton,  appeared  at  the  Bloomboro'  hotel. 
It  ivas  their  David,  and,  according  to  the  com- 
mercial traveler,  he  could  buy  a  gold  mine  every 
morning  before  breakfast,  if  he  cared  to,  and 
carried  two  or  three  of  the  great  railroads  in  his 
pocket.  Grandpa  said  he  'most  wished  he  had 
given  David  a  dollar  «'hen  he  went  away.  He 
had  thought  of  it,  when  he  saw  him  tjang  up  his 
bundle,  but  he  was  only  a  kind  of  second  cousin, 
and  he^  had  been  afraid,  too,  that  he  would  n't 
make  a  good  use  of  it.  And  Grandma  said 
David's  story  was  "  like  a  made-up  one  in  a  pic- 
ture-paper, and  it  seemed  kind  o'  light-minded 
to  listen  to  it."  But  the  Bloomboro'  boys 
listened,  and  the  heart  of  many  a  one  burned 
within  him. 

David's  wife  was  a  fine  city  lady ;  the  com- 
mercial traveler  had  heard  wonderful  reports  of 
her  diamonds  and  her  turnouts.  Grandma  was 
afraid  she  would  put  on  airs,  and  not  be  satisfied 
\\-ith  anything  ;  but  Grandpa  said  he  did  n't  "  see 
how  they  could  refuse,  bein'  't  was  relations  " — 
besides,  crops  had  been  poor  for  two  years  and 
the  bank-account  was  running  low.  Grandpa 
thought  much  about  that. 

-So  the  letter  was  sent,  saying  that  David's  wife 
and  daughter  might  come ;  and  Caddy  Jane 
scarcely  slept  a  wink  three  nights,  for  thinking 
and  wondering  about  Dulcie,  who  was  just  nine, 
as  she  was ;  but  Tom  did  n't  trouble  himself 
in  the  least  about  the  expected  guests,  having 
weightier  matters  on  his  mind. 

He  had  been  at  work  for  months,  in  his  spare 
time,  on  a  miniature  threshing-machine  of  his 
own  invention.  Grandpa  was  so  discouragingly 
old-fashioned  as  to  believe  in  a  boy  and  a  flail 
as  a  threshing-machine.  In  Tom's  opinion  the 
horse-power  threshing-machines,  which  some  of 
the  Bloomboro'  farmers  boasted,  were  not  much 
better.  His  machiner}'  was  somewhat  compli- 
cated, and  he  had  not  yet  quite  decided  whether 
the  motive  power  should  be  steam  or  electricity, 
though  he  had  leanings  toward  the  latter.  He 
had  kept  many  midnight  vigils  in  the  old  gran- 




ary,  with  no  company  except  now  and  then  a 
bright-eyed,  inquisitive  mouse,  and  he  thought 
in  about  a  week  or  two  he  should  finish  the 
machine  to  his  satisfaction.  It  was  dishearten- 
ing to  find  that  Caddy  Jane  had  transferred  her 
interest  almost  entirely  to  the  expected  guests. 
And  Jo  Whipple  was  continually  urging  him  to 
go  fishing.  A  boy  who  thought  great  thoughts 
must  think  them  alone,  Tom  reflected,  bitterly. 

Cousin  David  Creighton  came  to  Bloomboro' 
with  his  wife  and  daughter.  They  brought  a 
French  maid,  their  pug-dog,  and  a  great  amount 
of  luggage ;  but,  nevertheless,  Caddy  Jane  and 
even  Grandma  herself  were  somewhat  disap- 
pointed at  the  appearance  of  the  party,  for  they 
did  n't  look  in  the  least  as  if  they  came  out  of  a 
fairy-book,  as  Caddy  Jane  expected,  or  even  a 
picture-paper,  they  were  so  plainly  dressed ;  and 
Grandma  felt  sure  they  had  on  their  best  clothes, 
because  no  one  in  Bloomboro'  would  think  of 
wearing  an}'thing  else  on  a  journey.  And 
Grandma  thought  Dulcie  such  a  queer,  "  out- 
landish-looking "  little  girl,  with  her  hair  down 
to  her  eyes,  and  her  dresses  down  to  her  shoes 
and  far  too  short-waisted.  Grandma  hoped  she 
could  have  the  Bloom'ooro'  dressmaker  "  fix  her 
up  a  little  "  before  the  minister's  wife  called. 

Although  they  were  both  nine,  Dulcie  and 
Caddy  Jane  looked  askance  at  each  otheh  It 
was  onl)'  when,  the  day  after  the  arrival,  Dulcie 
needed  sympathy  in  a  great  trouble  that  the  ice 
was  broken  between  them,  and  they  irmnediately 
became  great  friends.  Dulcie's  dearest  doll, 
Jacquetta,  had  been  carelessly  packed,  and  a 
heavy  box  pressing  upon  her  had  maimed  and 
disfigured  her  for  life. 

Caddy  Jane  went  fl)ing  through  the  wood- 
shed that  afternoon,  with  Jacquetta  under  her 
arm,  to  meet  Tom.  "  O  Tom,  you  never  saw 
anything  like  her !  Such  a  beauty  !  and  she  feels 
orfley  !  She  cried  and  cried,  and  —  you  don't 
think  you  could  mend  her,  do  you,  Tom  ?  And 
anyway  I  want  you  to  hear  her  talk ;  that  was  n't 
broken,  and  it  's  almost  enough  to  frighten  you, 
and  oh  1  Tom,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Caddy  Jane's  tone  suddenly  changed,  for  she 
discovered,  as  Tom  came  nearer,  that  his  face 
was  pale  and  his  eyes  so  dark  that  they  looked 
unlike  Tom's  soft,  blue  ones,  and  his  teeth  were 
set  tightly  together  ;  altogether  he  looked  almost 

as  if  he  were  not  Tom  at  all,  as  Caddy  Jane 
said  to  herself.  She  had  never  seen  him  look  so 
but  once  before,  and  that  was  when  Samp'  Peters 
set  his  fierce  dog  upon  Tom's  white  kitten,  and 
the  kitten's  back  was  broken. 

"  Do  tell  me  what  it  is,  Tom  ?  "  said  Caddy 

Tom  set  his  teeth  more  tightly  together,  and 
then,  suddenly,  it  came  over  him  that  it  would 
be  a  relief  to  tell  Caddy  Jane.  It  always  was, — 
perhaps  because  she  was  such  a  foolish  little 
thing  ;  she  never  gave  any  advice.  Tom  did  n't 
like  ad\dce  when  he  felt  miserable. 

"  They  were  going  over  the  farm.  Grandpa 
and  Cousin  David  Creighton,"  began  Tom,  in  a 
strained,  high-keyed  voice,  which  he  tried  very 
hard  to  keep  calm  and  steady.  "  Cousin  David 
wanted  to  see  the  places  that  he  remembered. 
I  did  n't  think  they  would  go  into  the  old  gran- 
ary, it 's  such  a  tumble-down  old  place,  but  they 
did,  and  Grandpa  rummaged  around.  He  saw 
some  of  my  tools  —  I  '\e  got  careless  since  no- 
body ever  goes  there — and  that  made  him  sus- 
pect. I  was  away  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
swamp  when  I  saw  them  in  there ;  you  'd  bet- 
ter believe  I  ran  !  When  I  got  to  the  door 
Grandpa  had  my  model  in  his  hand.  I  screamed 
out.  I  don't  know  what  I  said,  but  I  tried  to 
tell  him  what  it  was.  I  thought  if  I  could  make 
him  understand  that  it  would  do  more  in  five 
minutes  than  two  men  in  a  week!  —  but  it  was 
of  no  use  ;  he  had  that  smile  on  his  face  that 
just  maddens  a  fellow.  He  threw  my  model 
down  on  the  floor  and  set  his  foot  on  it." 

"  Oh,  Tom  ! "  Caddy  Jane  stepped  upon  some 
wood  to  make  her  taU  enough,  and  put  her  arm 
around  Tom's  neck.  Tom  shook  her  off,  after  a 
moment;  he  thought  the  fellows  would  call  him 
"  a  softy  "  if  they  should  see  her.  But  Caddy 
Jane  knew  that  he  was  not  displeased,  for  he 
went  on  to  say,  not  without  a  little  choking  in 
his  throat : 

"  And  that  is  n't  the  worst,  Caddy  Jane." 

"O  Tom,  what  could \iQ  worse?"  cried  Caddy 

'•  That  man  —  Cousin  David  Creighton  — 
acted  as  if  he  meant  to  be  kind ;  he  picked  up 
the  pieces  and  looked  them  over  ;  he  stayed  after 
Grandpa  had  gone  out;  and  he  asked  me  about 
the  machine.    And  he  said  I  had  made  a  mis- 




take.  I  did  n't  believe  him  at  first,  but  he  showed 
it  to  me.  Caddy,  it  would  n't  have  gone,  any- 
way !  " 

"But  you  could  have  made  it  right,  Tom! 
You  can  make  it  over  and  make  it  go !  "  cried 
Caddy  Jane,  with  intense  conviction. 

"  He  said  I  did  n't  know  enough :  that  I  was 
too  ambitious;  that  I  must  learn  things  first. 
And  it  's  true !  That 's  the  very  worst  of  it !  I 
don't  believe  I  shall  ever  make  anything  that 
will  go.  I  may  as  well  dig  potatoes  all  my  life, 
as  Grandpa  wishes  me  to." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  you  will  make  things  that  will  go  ! 
I  know  you  will,"  cried  Caddy  Jane.  "You 
would  n't  think  such  wonderful  things  unless 
you  could  do  them.  Things  will  go  wrong  just 
at  first.  I  thought  I  should  never  learn  to  heel 
and  toe  off,  and  now  you  can't  tell  my  stockings 
from  Grandma's.  And  you  are  so  smart,"  she 
added  quickly,  feeling  it  presumptuous  to  com- 
pare herself,  in  any  way,  to  Tom.  "And  oh, 
Tom,  there  are  so  many  troubles  I  Dulcie  has 
cried  and  cried.  Just  look  here!  Her  beauti- 
ful nose  all  flattened,  her  eye  dropped  out,  her 
cheek  crushed  in,  and  her  dear  arm  broken  off! " 

Caddy  Jane  held  up  the  melancholy  wreck 
of  a  golden-haired  wa.\  doll. 

"  Pooh  !  girls'  rubbish,"  growled  Tom,  think- 
ing that  Caddy  Jane  was  going  to  be  much  less 
satisfactory,  now  that  this  new  girl  had  come. 

"  But  listen,  Tom !  " 

"  Pa-pa ! "  "  Mam-ma ! "  said  the  golden-haired 
doll,  not  in  a  faint  voice,  as  one  might  e.\pect 
from  her  condition,  but  quite  distincdy. 

Tom  fairly  jumped;  talking  dolls  were  quite 
unknown  to  Bloomboro'.  Then  he  seized  the 
doll  eagerly  from  Caddy  Jane's  hands,  and 
squeezed  it  again  and  again. 

"  I  wonder  how  they  do  it  I  I  wonder  what 
the  machinery  is  like  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  She  's 
all  smashed  up,  anyway.  That  girl  would  n't 
mind  if  I  should  take  her  to  pieces,  would 

Tom  had  quite  forgotten  his  troubles  for  the 
moment ;  his  face  was  all  aglow. 

'■'■Oh,  Tom!"  Caddy  Jane's  accent  was  full  of 
horror.  "  I  don't  know  what  she  would  say.  She 
says  she  thinks  just  as  much  as  ever  of  her. 
And  she  feels  orfley  because,  she  says,  she  has 
neglected  her  lately  for  a  colored  doll  that  was 

given  her  in  Boston.  She  's  only  made  of  kid, 
and  she  's  got  raveled  yarn  for  wool,  and  bead 
eyes,  and  she  's  not  so  very  much  better-looking 
than  my  old  Dinah ;  but  she  never  saw  a  col- 
ored doll  before,  and  she  thinks  she  is  perfecdy 
fascinating  ;  that 's  what  she  says, '  perfectly  fas- 
cinating ' ;  and  her  name  is  Nancy  Ray,  and 
she  says  if  she  could  only  talk,  like  Jacquetta — " 

Tom  was  gazing  at  Jacquetta  with  speculative 
and  longing  eyes. 

"  You  might  leave  her  here.  I  will  mend  her 
arm  some  time,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption  of 

"  Oh,  I  could  n't  do  that.  You  might  take  her 
to  pieces  —  of  course  you  would  n't  mean  to, 
but  you  might  without  thinking  —  and  perhaps 
she  would  n't  go  together  again  !  "  said  Caddy 
Jane,  with  a  vivid  recollection  of  some  of  Tom's 

"  You  'd  better  take  her  away  just  as  quick 
as  you  can.  She  might  get  a  scratch — such  a 
handsome  new  doll !  "  sneered  Tom. 

Caddy  hesitated.  She  could  never  bear  to 
have  Tom  cross,  and  he  was  looking  dejected 

"  I  might  ask  Dulcie  if  she  would  like  to  have 
you  mend  her  arm,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  go  along,  and  don't  keep  talking  about 
it.     It  is  n't  worth  while,"  said  Tom,  crossly. 

Caddy  Jane  was  back  in  a  minute. 

"  She  says  she  does  n't  care.  They  're  mak- 
ing a  new  red  dress  for  Nancy  Ray,  Dulcie 
and  the  French  woman  are,  and  I  think  Dulcie 
is  almost  forgetting  about  Jacquetta." 

"  Leave  old  Jacket  here,  then,"  said  Tom, 
quite  restored  to  good-nature.  "  And,  I  say, 
Caddy  Jane,  you  might  get  up  a  httle  picnic  for 
that  girl.  It  would  be  nice  to  go  down  to 
Plunkett's  pond  and  stay  all  day." 

Caddy  Jane  caught  readily  at  the  idea.  She 
said  she  would  go,  this  very  minute,  and  see 
what  Grandma  thought  about  it.  She  looked 
back  wistfully  at  Jacquetta.  Although  she  was 
nine,  Caddy  Jane  still  had  the  feelings  of  a 
mother  toward  dolls,  and  she  strongly  suspected 
that  Jacquetta  was  about  to  be  sacrificed  to 
Tom's  spirit  of  investigation.  And  there  was 
the  dreadful  doubt  whether  she  would  go  to- 
gether again!  But  Caddy  Jane  struggled  against 
her  feelings,  for  Tom's  sake  —  poor  Tom,  whose 



precious  model  had  been  crushed  under  Grand- 
pa's heel ! 

Tom,  the  moment  he  was  alone,  thrust  Jac- 
quetta  under  his  jacket,  as  far  as  she  would  go, 
and  set  out  for  the  old  granary.  A  half-hour 
before,  he  had  said  to  himself  that  he  could  never 
bear  to  enter  that  place  again;  but  now  he  pushed 
aside  the  ruins  of  his  model  with  only  a  dull 
pang  of  remembrance,  so  absorbing  was  his 
curiosity  about  this  wonderful  new  machinery. 

He  mended  the  arm  first.  It  seemed  a  great 
waste  of  time ;  but  that  girl  might  take  it  into  her 
head  to  want  the  doll  suddenly,  and  she  might 
make  a  fuss  and  cry.  She  was  evidently  not  a  girl 
like  Caddy  Jane,  whom  a  fellow  could  put  in  her 
proper  place.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  mend- 
ing of  that  arm  did  small  credit  to  Tom's  me- 
chanical skill;  it  certainly  was  a  very  hurried 
performance.  And  when  it  was  done  he  care- 
fully locked  the  granary  door,  and  proceeded  to 
discover  what  made  Jacquetta  say  "Papa"  and 
"  Mamma." 

He  worked  for  a  long  time,  and  sometimes  his 
forehead  was  puckered  up  into  a  very  hard  frown, 
and  several  times  he  uttered  a  little  exclamation 
of  satisfaction.  Once  he  longed  so  much  for 
Caddy  Jane  that  he  was  tempted  to  go  in  search 
of  her.  He  had  made  a  discovery  which  he 
wished  so  much  to  tell  to  some  one. 

He  had  taken  the  machinery  all  apart,  and  he 
could  put  it  together  again;  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  Grandma  and  every  one  know 
that ;  but  it  did  seem  a  great  pity  to  fasten  it  up 
again  in  that  old  ruin  of  a  doll. 

Suddenly  so  bright  an  idea  struck  Tom  that 
he  threw  his  cap  up  among  the  cobwebby  beams 
of  the  granary.  "  I  '11  go  and  stir  Caddy  Jane 
up  about  that  picnic.  I  '11  make  her  have  it 
to-morrow.  I  can't  wait,"  he  said  to  himself 
"  Nobody  could  blame  a  fellow  for  trying  such 
a  scientific  experiment  as  that."  He  quite  sur- 
prised Grandma  by  his  zeal  in  making  prepara- 
tions for  the  picnic,  as  he  was  not  at  all  in  the 
habit  of  being  attentive  to  guests,  and  had  shown 
a  strong  inclination  to  run  away  from  "  that 
girl."  When  the  morning  of  the  picnic  came, 
Grandma  thought  he  seemed  more  like  himself, 
for  he  steadfastly  refused  to  go. 

"  That  boy  is  up  to  something ;  't  is  n't  any 
use  to  tell  me !  "    Cynthy  sagely  remarked,  as 

Tom  prowled  restlessly  about  the  house,  evi- 
dently in  search  of  something. 

At  length,  in  a  secluded  comer  of  the  piazza, 
he  seemed  to  find  what  he  sought  and  ran  off 
with  it  to  the  old  granary ;  and  nothing  more 
was  seen  of  him  for  that  day. 

The  picnic  party  returned  late,  and  although 
it  was  plain  to  Caddy  Jane's  e.xperienced  eye 
that  Tom  had  something  on  his  mind,  he  did  not 
confide  in  her.  She  observed  that  he  continu- 
ally cast  an.xious  glances  at  a  certain  corner  of 
the  piazza ;  and  when  Grandma  had  sent  him 
out  to  find  a  stray  chicken  which  was  peeping 
disconsolately  in  the  tall  grass,  she  went  to  see 
what  there  could  be  in  that  comer.  But  she 
found  nothing  except  Nancy  Ray,  sitting  in  the 
carriage  which  had  been  poor  Jacquetta's,  just 
as  her  mistress  had  left  her.  She  did  not  think 
it  possible  that  Tom  could  have  any  interest  in 
Nancy  Ray ;  it  was  not  long  ago  that  he  had 
terribly  wounded  her  feelings  by  letting  all  the 
sawdust  run  out  of  her  first  doll,  in  an  investi- 
gating spirit,  and  since  then  he  had  shown  only 
scorn  of  dolls.  She  would  have  liked  to  ask  him 
about  Jacquetta,  but  he  gave  her  no  opportunity. 

Early  the  next  morning  Dulcie  went  across 
the  field  with  Caddy  Jane,  on  an  errand  to  Mrs. 
Scammon.  As  they  passed  the  old  granary, 
Dulcie  caught  sight  of  a  bit  of  striped  ribbon 
fluttering  from  the  top  of  a  tall  thistle  near  the 
door.  "  It  is  Jacquetta's  belt !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  should  know  it  anywhere.  Oh,  my  poor, 
dear  Jacquetta!  I  wonder  if  he  has  mended 
her  arm.  This  is  the  little  house  where  you 
said  he  works,  is  n't  it  ?  Let  us  go  in  and  see 
if  we  can  find  her." 

Caddy  Jane  objected,  but  Dulcie  had  already 
pushed  open  the  door.  And  it  was  quite  use- 
less, as  Caddy  Jane  had  found  already,  to  object 
to  anything  that  Dulcie  wished  to  do.  She 
opened  drawers  and  peered  into  boxes  and 
barrels,  while  Caddy  Jane,  filled  with  an.xious 
forebodings,  begged  her  to  come  away;  and 
at  last,  at  the  same  time,  they  both  caught  sight 
of  some  golden  locks,  a  waxen  cheek,  a  col- 
lapsed, dismembered  body  !  These  fragments 
lay  on  a  table,  in  a  heap  of  rubbish  partially 
covered   with  shavings. 

"  Oh,  oh,  that  cruel,  wicked  boy !  he  has  broken 
her  all  to  pieces !  And  she  was  the  very  dearest 



doll  I  ever  had !  And  you  said  he  would  mend 
her !  Oh,  how  could  I  trust  you !  Oh,  my  poor, 
dear  Jacquetta ! " 

Dulcie's  grief  waxed  louder  upon  reflection. 
She  heaped  reproaches  upon  Caddy  Jane.  She 
ran  toward  the  house,  in  spite  of  all  Caddy's 
entreaties,  crying  with  grief  and  rage.  Caddy 
saw,  with  a  sinking  heart,  that  Grandpa  and 
Dulcie's  father  were  standing  together  upon  the 
piazza.  Grandpa  would  be  very  angrj'.  Tom's 
passion  for  taking  things  to  pieces  was  the  one 
thing  with  which  he  had  no  patience.  And  he 
had  especially  enjoined  upon  both  Tom  and 
Caddy  to  be  very  polite  and  attentive  to  the 
guests.    Oh,  what  would  happen  to  Tom  ? 

There  he  was  now,  coming  around  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house,  just  in  time  to  see  the  doll's 
mangled  remains  in  Dulcie's  hands,  and  to  hear 
her  woful  complaint,  poured  out  with  tears  and 
sobs.  Grandpa's  face  was  like  a  thunder-cloud, 
and  when  he  asked  Tom,  in  a  dreadful  voice, 
what  he  had  to  say  for  himself,  Tom  would  not 
answer  a  word.  He  was  in  one  of  his  sullen 
moods,  and,  indeed,  it  «as  not  of  much  use  to 
try  to  answer  Grandpa  when  he  was  in  that 
state  of  mind.  And  Dulcie's  father  looked  as  if 
he  were  very  sorry  —  for  his  little  girl,  of  course, 
Caddy  Jane  thought. 

"  And  I  never  knew  a  doll  that  could  talk 
before,  and  he  's  broken  it  right  out  of  her  1  " 
sobbed  Dulcie. 

And  then  a  sudden  inspiration  seized  Caddy 
Jane ;  she  had  them  sometimes,  though  she  was 
such  a  foolish  little  thing. 

She  flew  along  the  piazza  and  seized  Nancy 
Ray  out  of  the  carriage,  pressed  her  to  her 
bosom,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  She  thrust 
her  into  Dulcie's  arms,  while  Dulcie  ceased  her 
sobs  in  astonishment. 

"  Papa !  "  '•  Mamma  !  "  said  Nancy  Ray. 

"  Oh,  oh,  she  can  talk !  "  cried  Dulcie,  becom- 
ing a  rainbow.    "  What  does  it  mean  ?    She  was 

the  nicest  doll  I  ever  had,  before," — (Oh,  false 
and  fickle  Dulcie !)  "  and  now  she  's  perfect !  Oh, 
did  you  do  it  ?  "  (to  Tom,  who  tried  to  look  in- 
different.) "  It  's  too  bad  that  I  called  you  an 
orfle  boy  when  you  are  such  a  nice  one,  and 
can  do  such  wondt-rful  things.  And  Jacquetta 
was  only  a  broken  old  thing." 

Tom  was  beginning  to  talk  to  Dulcie's  father; 
Grandpa  had  walked  away,  with  something  like 
an  amused  look  upon  his  face.  Tom  was  ex- 
cited and  talked  eagerly.  It  was  a  comfort  to 
explain  that  machinery  to  some  one  who  seemed 
to  understand  and  be  interested.  And  there 
was  one  httle  point  where  he  thought  an  im- 
provement might  be  made — it  might  be  less 
compUcated.  He  hesitated  before  saying  this, 
because  he  thought  Cousin  David  might  find 
some  mistake  again,  or  perhaps  laugh  at  him. 
But  he  did  n't ;  he  seemed  to  consider  the 
matter  seriously,  and  asked  a  great  many  ques- 
tions, and  at  last  said  that  he  should  n't  wonder 
if  Tom  were  right,  and  if  Tom  would  work  ujj 
his  idea  so  that  it  could  be  seen  he  might  pos- 
sibly secure  a  patent  for  it !  He  thought  those 
talking  dolls  were  not  made  in  this  country,  but 
he  would  see  what  could  be  done  with  it  abroad ; 
sometimes  a  little  thing  like  that  amounted  to  a 
great  deal.  And,  anyway,  he  had  become  so 
convinced  of  Tom's  mechanical  ability,  that  he 
was  going  to  ask  Grandpa's  consent  to  Tom's 
going  to  New  York  in  the  fall,  where  he  would 
give  the  boy  a  technical  education. 

Tom  was  so  overcome  that  he  only  colored, 
and  gasped,  and  looked  at  Caddy  Jane.  And 
Caddy  Jane,  being  only  a  foolish  little  girl, 
cried.  But  I  think  Cousin  Da\'id  felt  that  he 
was  receiving  gratitude  enough. 

"  I  never  expected  anybody  would  believe 
in  me  till  I  'd  made  an  Instantaneous  Butter- 
maker  or  an  improved  phonograph,  or  some- 
thing great,"  said  Tom ;  "  and  to  think  it  's 
come  about  through  a  silly  old  doll ! " 


Bv  Oliver  Herford. 

Persons  of  the  Drama. 

Mr.  Thomas  Cat.  Master  Tommy  Cat. 

Mrs.  Thomas  Cat.  Miss  Fluffy  Cat. 

Sir  Rat. 


Scene  :      The  barn.     A  haskef  in  one  corner. 

Master  Tommy  ( looking  out  of  the  basket). 
How  very  big  the  world  is,  after  all ! 
Compared  to  it  our  basket  seems  quite  small. 
We  never  dreamed,  dear  Fluffj-,  till  our  eyes 
Were  opened,  that  the  world  was  such  a  size. 
I  'd  like  at  once  to  see  it  all.     Let  's  go 
And  take  a  stroll  around  it. 

Fluffy.  No!  No!  No! 

Mamma  expressly  told  us  not  to  stray 
Outside  the  basket  while  she  was  away. 
Something  might  hapj)en  if  we  disobeyed. 


Oh,  you  don't  dare,  of  course, —  you  are  afraid ! 


Suppose  —  oh,  dear  !  —  suppose  we   meet  a 
Vol.  XVII.— 9. 


Suppose  we  do,  dear  Fluffy,  what  of  that  ? 
/  will  protect  you  with  my  strong  right  paw. 
The  sight  of  me  would  fill  a  Rat  with  awe. 

Fluffy.         Would  it  ? 

Tommy.         Of  course  it  would.      I  'd  rather 
like  to  see 
The  Rat  who  'd  dare  to  trifle  once  with  me. 
I  do  not  think  he  'd  live  to  trv  it  twice  1 


You  are  so  brave  I 
To  see  the  world  - 

It  reallv  would  be  nice 

Tommy.         It  will  be  grand.     Here  goes ! 
There,  take  my  paw,  and  jump.     So,  mind 
your  toes ! 

(Fluffy  fumps.) 
Xow  we  are  off.     Tread  softly,  Sister  dear. 
If  we  're  not  careful  all  the  world  may  hear. 

Fluffy  (starting). 

Oh,  dear,  what  was 
that  noise  ?  I  wish  we 
'd  stayed  — 

Tommy  (trembling). 

Be  brave,   dear  Sister. —  see.   /  '/«  n'-n'-not 

Whatever  happens,  do  not  make  a  row ! 


SIR     RAT  —  A    COMEDY. 


Sir  Rat. 



(Enter  Sir  Rat.) 
Aha  !  what  's  this  ? 
Help!    Murder  1    Mi-o\v-^7<:'! 

Tommy,  be  calm !    Uear  Mr.  Rat,  good-day.    g,^  -^^^    gg  jone  with  follv,  Kitten !  Now  at  last 

Sir  Rat  (jumping  up  and  do7vn). 

Enough!  enough!   I  ihd  not  come  to  i>lay  ! 


Dear  Mr.  Rat,  liow  beautifully  you  dance. 

Sir  Rat.  You  flatter  me. 

Fluffy  (aside).  It  is  my  only  chance. 

,^7J7  Tommy.) 
Run,  Tommy!  run!  and  bring  dear  Father-cat, 
While  I  remain  and  flatter  Mr.  Rat. 

(Exit  Tommy  ///  haste.) 
(To^xv.  R/\T.) 
It 's  very  plain  you  learned  that  stc])  in  France. 
I  wish,  dear  Rat,  you  'd  teach  me  how  to  dance. 
Sir  Rat. 

I  do  not  often  dancing  lessons  give ; 
But  since  you  have  n't  very  long  to  live. 
And  you  are  so  polite,  this  once  I  '11  try. 

Your  time  has  come.    Reflect  upon  your  past! 


It  won't  take  long  my  past  life  to  unfold! 
In  sooth.  Sir  Rat,  I  'm  only  nine  days  old. 

^    €. 


Sir  Rat.         Peace,  Kitten!  Hold  thy  peace! — 
thy  time  is  past.     (Springs  upon  her.) 

Thanks!    thanks,  dear  Rat,— one     Fluffy.  Miow  !   Miow ! 

dance  before  I  die. 

(Polka  Music. 
Sir    Rat   dances 
and    Eluffy    ap- 

Fluffy.  Bravo ! 
Sir  Rat,  I 
ne\'er  saw 
Such  perfect 
W'on't  )ou 
dance  once 
more  ? 

(Enter  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cat  and  Tommy.) 


(■■^    \M 





Mr.  Cat.  Aha!  Sir  Rat,  at  last 

I  have  thee;  and  this  barn  will  soon,  I  trow. 
Be  rid  of  such  a  Ruffian  Rat  as  thou  ! 

(  They  fght.      Sir  Rat  falls.) 

Mr.  Cat  (s/icathing  his  claws). 

'T  is  well  I  hastened ;  had  I  not,  I  fear 
\Ve  soon  had  seen  the  last  of  Fluffy  dear ! 


Oh,  dear,  to  think  what  might  have  been  her 

Fluffv  (aside). 

I  learned  that  polka  step,  at  any  rate. 

Mrs.  Cat. 

But  luncheon  's  waiting.   Come  into  the  house. 

Your  father 
caught  to- 
day a  line 
spring  mouse. 

And,  cliildren, 
when  I  tell 
you     nut     to    stray 

From  home,  in  future  do  not  disobey ! 


A    RACE    FOR    LIFE. 

By  Emma  W.  De.meritt. 

iOMETHING  must  have 
happened.  Father  ought 
to  have  reached  home  two 
hours  ago." 

Tom  Ely's  face  wore  a 
troubled  look  as  he  glanced 
uneasily  toward  the  door. 
He  was  sitting  by  a  blazing  fire  in  the  rough  room 
of  a  lumberman's  log  shanty  upon  the  shore  of 
one  of  the  large  Adirondack  lakes.  Beside  the 
rough  fireplace,  at  the  head  of  a  pile  of  skins 
and  coarse,  woolen  blankets,  stood  Tom's  gun, 
his  Christmas  present  from  his  father.  On  the 
other  side,  with  the  polished  steels  glistening 
in  the  firelight,  hung  his  skates,  for  this  active 
lad  of  fifteen  was  the  champion  skater  of  the 
Saranac  region.  There  was  hardl)'  anything 
which  Tom  could  not  do  on  ice.  He  could  go 
forward  or  backward,  wheeling  and  circling 
witli  all  the  ease  of  a  swallow  in  mid-air.  So 
swiftly  could  he  skim  along  the  ice  that  his 
father  used  laughingly  to  boast  that — "while 
any  other  skater  was  going  one  rod,  Tom  could 
easil)'  skate  around  him  twice." 

The  lumbering-camp  had  broken  up  that  very 
day.  After  weeks  of  hard  work,  the  great  trees 
had  been  cut  down  and  the  logs  dragged  to  the 
water's  edge,  waiting  for  the  yearh'  spring  rise 
in  the  rivers  to  float  them  to  the  mills.  There 
Avas  nothing  more  to  be  done  until  the  breaking 
up  of  the  ice.  Most  of  the  men  had  gone  di- 
rectly to  their  homes  in  the  settlements.  Ten  or 
twelve  of  them,  however,  had  spoken  of  stay- 
ing for  a  day  or  hvo  at  a  shanty  on  the  second 
lake  below-,  with  the  hope  of  securing  some 
deer,  and  Tom's  father  concluded  to  stay  be- 
hind at  the  main  camp  for  a  few  days,  thinking 
that  if  he  should  set  his  traps  he  might  succeed 
in  getting  a  few  skins  to  make  warm  tippets  and 
muffs  for  Tom's  mother  and  litde  sister. 

Soon  after  dinner,  leaving  Tom  to  cook  the 
supper  and  gather  some  firewood,  the  father 

shouldered  his  rifle  and  started  out  for  a  tramp. 
By  sunset,  Tom  had  piled  up  the  wood  in  one 
corner  of  the  cabin,  and  then  he  set  to  work  to 
prepare  supper.  He  placed  the  big  tin  plates 
and  cups  on  the  rough,  pine  table,  and,  taking 
down  a  ham  which  was  hanging  from  the  ceiling, 
cut  oft"  a  few  sHces  and  put  them  in  the  frying- 
pan,  and  very  soon  an  appetizing  hot  meal  was 
smoking  on  the  hearth ;  but  still  his  father  did 
not  come. 

Tom  was  a  Httle  homesick,  sitting  there  all 
alone.  He  thought  of  his  snug  home  in  the  set- 
tlement, and  fancied  just  how  his  mother  and 
little  sister  looked  as  they  stood  in  the  door- 
way watching  him  and  his  father  setting  out  for 
the  lumbering-camp.  Even  now,  his  mother's 
parting  words  rang  in  his  ears  —  "Tom,  my  boy, 
take  good  care  of  your  Father."  \Miat  if  any- 
thing had  happened  to  his  father ! 

Tom  started  to  his  feet  and,  running  to  the 
door,  opened  it  and  stepped  out  in  the  bright 
moonlight.  It  was  a  clear,  cold  night,  and  the  full 
moon  was  just  rising  above  the  dark  line  of  forest. 
He  stood  listening  for  a  moment,  and  was  turn- 
ing to  enter  the  cabin,  when  he  heard  a  footstep. 
He  raised  a  whistle  to  his  lips  and  sounded  a 
shrill,  piercing  note.  It  was  the  camp  signal, 
and  after  a  brief  pause  came  the  answering 
whistle.  But  it  sounded  strangely  faint  and 
quavering.  Tom  wondered  at  this,  and  won- 
dered still  more  as  he  heard  a  halting,  uncer- 
tain step  on  the  frozen  ground — a  step  utterly 
unlike  his  father's  long,  steady  stride. 

The  next  moment  a  tall  figure  tottered  down 
the  bank  behind  the  shanty,  and,  by  the  light  of 
the  moon,  Tom  saw  his  father's  pale,  hag_gard 
face.  "  Don't  be  frightened,"  said  the  wounded 
man  in  a  hoarse  whisper  as  the  boy  darted  up 
the  bank  and  saw  the  scorched  and  blood-stained 
jacket-sleeve  and  the  strong  arm  hanging  limp 
and  helpless.  "  My  foot  slipped  —  the  rifle  was 
loaded  —  and  went  off —  the  ball  shattered  my 


A    RACE    FOR    LIFE. 


arm  and  lodged  in  my  side  —  I  thought  1  never 
should  get  home." 

Tom  managed  to  lead  his  father  into  the 
cabin,  where  he  sank  down  on  the  pile  of  skins 
in  a  sort  of  stupor.  After  rubbing  the  cold  hand, 
and  forcing  a  few  spoonfuls  of  hot  coffee  be- 
tween the  white  lips,  Tom  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  the  sufferer  open  his  eyes  and  look  up 
with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"  It 's  pretty  hard  for  you,  Tom,"  he  groaned. 
"  I  feel  better  now.  The  loss  of  blood  made  me 
•dizzy.     What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  But  if  the  men  should  n't  be  there  ?  " 
"  Then  I  '11  keep  on  to  the  settlement." 
"  No — no — no!"  came  in  quick,  short  gasps; 
"there  's  another  danger  —  wo/ves." 

Tom  looked  up  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  fear. 
"  Have  you  seen  them,  Father  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Tom, — only  a  little  way  from  here, —  in 
some  snow  in  a  hollow  there  were  tracks.  Being 
an  old  guide  I  could  n't  mistake  'em.  The 
winter  has  been  long  and  sharp,  and  hunger  has 
made  them  bold.  It  is  many  years  since  they 
have  been  seen  around  here." 


TH  N  A  FE  \  YARDS 

"  Going  for  help,"  replied  Tom  promptly.  He 
Tose,  put  on  a  thick,  woolen  jacket  and  took  up 
his  fur  cap. 

The  father  shook  his  head.  "No,  no;  —  it 
won't  do,  my  son." 

"  But  I  inusf.  Father  !  Don't  look  so  worried. 
It  's  only  a  step  to  the  river  ;  then  down  the 
stream,  over  the  pond,  and  along  the  river  again 
—  then  whiz!  across  the  big  lake  to  the  shanty 
where  the  men  are !    That  's  all." 

Tom's  cheeks  blanched.  He  knew  well  that 
it  was  no  play  to  face  a  hungry  wolf,  or  per- 
haps a  pack  of  them,  in  that  grim,  lonely 
wilderness.  He  hesitated,  and  then  came  the 
remembrance  of  his  mother's  charge,  "Tom. 
take  good  care  of  your  Father."  His  mind 
was  made  up. 

"I  can't  take  my  gun,"  he  said  aloud,  "for  it 
would  only  be  in  the  way,  but  the  knife  will 
be  just  the  thing."    He  twisted  a  thick  scarf 


A    RACE    FOR    LIFE. 


around  hi.s  waist,  and  fastened  the  long-bladed 
iiunting-knife  securely  in  his  belt. 

'•  Tom,  you  not  go,''  moaned  his  father. 
"  I  can't  let  you  risk  your  life  to  save  mine !  " 

"  I  must  go.  Father,  if  there  were  forty  wolves 
in  my  way."  The  boy  knelt  down  by  his  father's 
side  and  stroked  the  cold  hand.  "  It  's  dreadful 
to  leave  you," — here  he  nearly  broke  down,  but 
managed  to  choke  back  the  rising  sobs, —  "still, 
it 's  the  only  way.  You  might  die  without  hel|i, 
and  what  could  1  sa)'  to  Mother !  Keep  up 
your  courage,  Father.  I  've  fixed  the  fire  so  that 
it  will  last,  and  here  's  the  cotilec  right  by  your 
elbow.  I  '11  be  back  soon."  Here  the  boy 
breathed  the  prayer,  "  God  help  me ! " 

In  a  moment  more,  Tom  had  fastened  the  door 
with  a  stout  staple  and  was  kneeling  by  the  lake, 
buckling  on  his  skates.  As  he  glided  from  the 
shores  he  cast  a  hurried  glance  around.  Both 
his  eyes  and  ears  were  strained  to  the  utmost. 
How  black  the  shadows  were  along  the  shores '. 
How  sharp  was  the  "  click,  click,"  of  the  skates, 
as  they  carried  him  on  w  ith  the  steady  motion 
of  a  machine!  The  river  was  soon  reached, 
and  the  half-mile  over  its  frozen  surface  was 
easily  made,  as  were  the  two  miles  across  the 
little  pond.  \\'hen  he  followed  again  the  frozen 
course  of  the  river  he  skated  backward,  as  his 
fa(x'  was  benumbed  from  going  against  the  wind. 
He  stopped  several  times  for  breathing-spells,  so 
that  he  felt  quite  rested  as  he  swept  out  of  the 
river  to  the  smooth,  level  floor  of  the  great  lake, 
at  the  lower  end  of  which  was  the  hunters'  cabin. 
For  two  miles  down  the  lake,  Tom  skated  quite 
slowly,  as  he  was  keejjing  his  strength  for  the 
final  dash.  With  body  erect,  head  thrown  back, 
and  arras  crossed  on  his  chest,  he  glided  in 
long,  easy  curves  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the 
left.  As  he  reached  the  shelter  of  a  little  island 
he  paused  for  a  short  rest.  Then  he  buckled  on 
his  skates  more  firmly,  but  just  as  he  was  taking 
a  long  breath  in  order  to  start  again,  a  prolonged 
mournful  howl  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night 
air.  It  was  the  sound  which  he  had  been 
dreading  and  expecting !  His  first  impulse  was 
to  save  himself  by  climbing  one  of  the  large  trees 
near  by.  Then  he  thought  of  his  mother's  part- 
ing charge.  ''That  would  be  looking  out  for 
myself,  and  she  told  me  to  take  care  of  Father," 
he  murmured.     He  hastily  pulled  off  his  jacket, 

felt  for  his  knife,  and  tightened  the  scarf  around 
his  waist.  "  You  '11  have  exercise  enough  to 
keep  you  warm,  Tom  Ely,"  he  muttered  between 
his  set  teeth ;  and  then  he  shot  forward  like  an 
arrow  from  the  bow.  How  tlie  ice  rang  under 
the  cjuick,  fierce  strokes  of  the  skates !  How 
swiftly  the  shores  ghded  by  ! 

The  boy  paused  a  moment  to  look  over  his 
shoulder.  On  the  ice  near  the  shore  was  a  small, 
black  speck,  growing  rapidl\-  larger.  The  wind 
had  swept  the  last  light  fall  of  snow  from  the 
center  of  the  lake  into  windrows  on  both 
sides,  and  there  it  had  frozen,  making  a  rough 
surface  on  which  the  wolf  found  a  sure  footing. 
Tom  increa.sed  his  speed,  but  that  long,  tireless 
gallop,  never  for  an  instant  faltering  nor  loitering, 
was  gaining  rapidly  on  him.  Already  the  lean, 
shaggy  brute  was  within  a  few  yards,  and  the 
bo)-  heard  an  angry  snarl  as  the  creature  made 
a  fierce  spring  at  him.  Quick  as  thought,  Tom 
wheeled  suddenly  to  the  right,  and  the  wolf 
rolled  over  and  over  on  the  ice,  while  the  skater 
sjied  on,  gaining  several  rods  by  this  trick. 

In  a  moment,  however,  the  furious  beast  was 
uj)  again,  and  a  second  desperate  race  began, 
and  a  second  time  Tom  escaped  the  sharp,  white 
teeth.  By  this  time  the  boy's  heart  was  beating 
like  a  tri])-hammer.  His  breath  came  in  quick, 
short  gasps,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  (]ueer 
feeling  of  weakness  about  the  knees.  His  heart 
sank  within  him  as  he  looked  back  and  saw  his 
enemy  again  on  his  track.  "  I  can't  keep  it  up 
much  longer,"  he  thought.  "A  little  twig  or 
roughness  on  the  ice — and  it  is  all  over  with  me." 
He  raised  his  white,  despairing  face  toward  the 
heavens  with  a  swift,  short  prayer.  Just  then  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  low  point  of  land  at  the 
left.  Tom's  blood  tingled  at  the  sight !  Below 
were  the  hunters'  cabin  and  the  stout  lumber- 
men !  "  What  if  the  men  had  gone  on  to  the 
settlement !  " —  and  the  boyish  voice  broke  into 
a  sob. 

.'\  few  strokes  of  the  skates  brought  him  to  the 
point,  with  the  wolf  close  at  his  heels.  Tom 
raised  his  whistle  to  his  lips  and  blew  a  piercing 
blast.  In  another  moment  he  had  dodged  the 
wolf  again,  and  as  he  swept  round  the  point 
he  saw  the  open  door  of  the  cabin  and  the 
blazing  fire  within.  He  heard  a  dozen  answer- 
ing whistles,  the  hoarse  baying  of  dogs,  the  sharp 

A    RACE    FOR    LIFE. 


crack  of  a  rifle.  He  mustered  strength  to  tell 
his  story,  and  then  a  faintness  came  over  him  and 
he  tottered  into  the  arms  of  a  strong  lumberman. 

The  ne.xt  that  he  knew,  he  was  lying  on  a 
pile  of  skins  by  a  bright  fire,  with  several  strong 
men  bending  over  him.  One  of  the  hunters 
was  saying,  "  I  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  own  a  boy 
hke  that.  Talk  of  heroes  —  why  that  fifteen- 
year-old  chap  is  the  biggest  hero  of  'em  all." 

Tom  looked  up  ;  he  said  only,  "  Father  ?  " 

"  P'our  of  the  men  have  gone  to  the  settlement 
for  a  doctor,  half  a  dozen  more,  with  old  Hodge 
amongst  'em  (and  he  's  as  good  as  a  doctor  any 
time),  are  on  the  way  to  your  father,  and  as  soon 
as  you  are  able,  we  '11  take  you  up  with  us." 

"  And  the  wolf?  "  Tom  .sank  back  shuddering. 

"  His  hide  is  over  yonder  in  the  comer ;  one 
of  the  men  says  that  he  is  going  to  dress  the 
skin  for  you.  It  will  be  the  jjroudest  trophy 
of  your  life,  I  reckon." 


By  John  Russell  Coryell. 

In  one  of  the  cages  of  the  zoological  gardens 
at  Central  Park,  there  is  a  miscellaneous  and 
rather  incongruous  collection  of  birds,  made  up, 
as  it  would  seem,  of  the  odds  and  ends  of  the 
feathered  portion  of  the  menagerie;  for  it  in- 
cludes such  dissimilar  birds  as  the  wood-duck, 
the  egret,  the  sickle-bill,  a  chicken  with  no  bill 
at  all,  a  crow  without  any  tail,  a  dilapidated  ad- 
jutant-bird, a  roseate  spoonbill  (which  spends 
the  greater  part  of  its  time  in  standing  on  one 
of  its  spindling  legs),  a  curassow,  and  several 
other  equally  ill-assorted  fellows. 

Except  a  sulky  heron,  which  seemingly  passes 
its  gloomy  life  in  nourishing  a  passionate  hatred 
for  the  tailless  crow,  these  chance  companions 
associate  very  amicably  together,  bearing  each 
other's  whims  and  fancies  with  philosophy  and 
good  temper.  And  it  must  need  a  large  supply 
of  both  those  virtues  to  get  along  in  so  mixed 
a  company ;  for  each  bird  follows  the  bent  of 
his  natural  habits  without  regard  to  any  other 

Some  of  the  results  of  this  condition  of  affairs 
are  more  amusing  to  the  spectator  than  to  the 
actors  ;  as,  when  the  sickle-bill  becomes  ])os- 
sessed  by  the  idea  that  something  of  great  value 
to  him  is  hidden  under  the  hen  without  a  bill. 

and  that  he  must  relieve  his  curiosity  by  remov- 
ing the  hen.  Accordingly  he  thrusts  his  long 
bill  under  that  patient  bird  and  lifts  her  uncere- 
moniously out  of  the  comfortable  dust-hole  she 
has  made  for  herself. 

Many  of  the  pranks  played  in  that  cage  are, 
however,  so  imbued  with  an  air  of  conscious 
humor  and  enjoyment  that  it  is  hard  to  believe 
that  they  are  not  meditated  jokes.  The  crow, 
for  example,  is  always  a  funny  bird ;  but  this 
particular  crow  has  the  manner  of  a  bird  that 
knows  itself  to  be  funny  and  even  seems  to  con- 
sider the  loss  of  its  tail  a  very  laughable  thing. 
Not  that  it  has  any  appearance  of  laughing. 
Far  from  it.  Like  a  professional  joker  of  the 
first  order,  it  is  solemnity  itself.  So,  too,  is  the 
adjutant-bird,  which  combines  with  the  crow  to 
make  fun  for  the  cage.  And  when  this  incon- 
gruous pair  are  in  a  mischievous  mood  there  is 
certain  to  be  fun. 

One  day,  when  the  crow  was  hopping  about 
the  cage  in  its  misguided  way, —  misguided  for 
lack  of  a  tail, — it  noticed  the  pair  of  pretty  little 
wood-ducks  contentedly  eating  some  scraps  of 
meat.  The  adjutant-bird  stood  in  seeming  slum- 
ber, a  picture  of  solemn  ugliness.  The  crow 
skipped  by  the  adjutant  once  or  twice,  with  a 



knowing  cock  of  the  head,  as  if  inviting  that 
solemn  bird  to  some  fun;  but  the  adjutant  only 
opened  one  of  its  eyes  in  a  way  inexpressibly 
sly  and  then  shut  the  eye  again  and  took  no 
further  notice  of  its  fellow  mischief-maker.  For 
a  moment  the  crow  looked  doubtfully  at  its  big 
friend,  well  knowing  the  adjutant's  wily  ways, 
and  then  with  a  series  of  sidling  hops  made  up 
to  the  wood-ducks,  cocked  its  head  leeringly  at 
them,  snatched  a  piece  of  meat  and  scurried 

laughter.  The  hilarity  they  caused  seemed  to 
spur  on  both  birds,  as  applause  inspires  actors, 
and  the  feathered  comedians  continued  their 
drollery  for  round  after  round. 

Of  course  there  is  always  fun  in  the  monkey 
cage,  but  probably  the  sense  of  humor  is  not 
more  developed  in  the  monkey  than  in  many 
other  animals.  The  elephant,  for  example,  can 
enjoy  a  joke  as  much  as  an)'  animal.  Mr.  Mer- 
edith Nugent,  the  artist,  tells  of  one  of  these 

'the     ELKrHA.Nr     Wi.U  LD     CATCH     UNK     UK       iHb     tAKS     OK      IHE      li  1 1  P' -FU  I  AM  L  b     AND     G1\E     IT     A     MISCHIEVOLS     TWEAK 

off.  The  crow  buried  that  piece  and  came  back 
for  more  and  yet  more,  until  there  was  no  more 
to  be  had.  Then  the  crow-  returned  to  his 
buried  treasures  and  unearthed  and  re-buried 
them  very  gleefull\-.  But  now  it  was  the  turn 
of  the  adjutant.  It  slowly  stretched  itself  and 
then  stalked  to  where  tlie  crow  was  making  his 
rounds  of  inspection.  .\s  the  crow  would  bury 
a  piece  of  meat,  the  adjutant  would  dig  it  up 
and  leave  it  exposed;  thus  undoing  the  work  of 
the  crow  as  often  as  the  latter  would  perform  it. 
And  so  they  continued  around  and  around  the 
cage,  the  one  burying  and  the  other  unearthing, 
and  all  with  such  droll  solemnity  that  the  spec- 
tators about  the  cage  were  kept  in  roars  of 

giant  jokers  noticed  by  him  in  the  zoological 
gardens  in  Paris,  while  he  was  sketching  there. 
This  elephant  had  made  friends  wth  the  hippo- 
potamus and  was  permitted  to  visit  the  latter, 
and  it  was  in  the  inclosure  for  the  hippopota- 
mus that  he  developed  a  fondness  for  practical 
joking,  which  seemed  to  give  him  peculiar 

He  would  reach  over  the  big  tank  when  the 
hippopotamus  was  lolling  in  the  water,  sud- 
denly catch  one  of  the  little  ears  of  the  latter 
with  the  finger  of  his  trunk  and  give  it  so  mis- 
chievous a  tweak  that  the  huge  river-horse  would 
roar  out  and  angrily  open  his  huge  mouth.  Then 
the  hippopotamus  would  be  upon  his  guard  and 




sink  out  of  sight,  to  come  up  again  further  away. 
But,  for  all  his  seeming  anno)'ance,  he  apparently 
liked  the  fun  himself;  for,  when  he  had  come  up 
to  the  surface  quite  too  far  away  for  the  elephant 
to  reach  him,  he  would  sink  and  try  again  to  re- 
appear just  out  of  reach  of  the  waving  trunk. 
The  elephant  evinced  his  enjoyment  of  the  sport 
by  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  manner  of  his  kind, 
and  occasionally,  too,  he  would  open  his  mouth 
in  a  comical  resemblance  to  a  laugh, —  though 
it  must  be  said  that  the  resemblance  is  purely 
accidental,  for  though  the  elephant  may  laugh 
he  does  not  do  it  in  that  way. 

Another  joke  enjoyed  by  this  elephant  was  to 
stand  over  some  particularly  choice  morsel  meant 
for  the  hippopotamus,  and  thus  prevent  him  from 
eating  it  —  to  tease  him,  in  fact.  So  great  was 
the  elephant's  enjoyment  of  this  feat  that  he 
would  not  only  sway  to  express  his  pleasure,  but 
would  make  a  rumbling  sound  which,  with  the 
elephant,  is  more  than  anything  else  indicative 
of  delight.  And  the  vexation  of  the  hippopot- 
amus was  as  evident  as  the  enjo\-ment  of  the 
elephant.  The  hippopotamus  knew  he  was  power- 
less to  coerce  his  friend,  and  so  he  would  go  away 
and  sulk  until  it  was  the  pleasure  of  the  elephant 
to  move  from  the  coveted  food.  Occasionally, 
however,  the  elephant  would  pretend  to  leave 
it,  and  then  return  just  in  time  to  cheat  the 

It  was  an  Indian  elephant  that  betrayed  a 
taste  for  fun  in  this  instance;  but  in  the  same 
menagerie  there  is  another  case  known,  in  which 
an  African  elephant  showed  a  similar  disposition. 
Only,  in  this  instance,  the  elephant  caught  a 
tartar  and  was  temporarily  cured  of  his  jocular 
attentions.  The  African  elephant  had  formed  a 
friendship  for  a  zebra;  and,  though  the  zebra 
was  shy  for  some  time,  it  yielded  at  last  to  the 
advances  of  its  gigantic  friend  and  permitted  his 
caresses  wthout  giving  way  to  paroxysms  of 
fear.  By  and  by  the  elephant  became  embold- 
ened and  grew  a  little  rough,  pulling  the  sensi- 

tive zebra's  legs  and  tail  and  ears.  One  day  the 
zebra  wearied  of  its  ponderous  friend's  teasing 
and  incontinently  caught  one  of  the  elephant's 
great,  flapping  ears  between  its  teeth  and  bit  so 
hard  and  pulled  so  sturdily,  that  the  elephant 
was  fain  to  sue  for  mercy  in  a  series  of  shrill 
trumpetings.  Thereafter  the  big  elephant  was 
respectful  as  well  as  affectionate  to  the  zebra. 

It  ought  to  be  said  in  the  elephant's  behalf, 
that  he  is  not  always  so  fond  of  joking  at  the 
expense  of  his  friends.  It  is  a  singular  fact  that 
a  friend  or  pet  seems  to  be  a  necessity  to  a  cap- 
tive elephant.  In  most  cases  that  friend  is  selected 
from  among  the  smaller  of  the  animals  about  it. 
Frequently  the  friend  is  a  dog  belonging  to  the 
keeper,  and  in  many  well-known  instances  a 
helpless,  little  human  baby  has  been  selected  as 
the  object  of  the  elephant's  affection.  When 
the  elephant's  chosen  friend  is  clearly  help- 
less, the  great  beast  has  never  been  known  to 
tease  or  injure  it,  even  in  fun.  Its  tenderness 
with  a  baby  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  sights 

Mr.  Nugent  tells  also  of  a  practical  joke  which 
he  saw  perpetrated  by  a  tiger  in  the  London 
Zoo,  although  it  was  really  unintentional  on  the 
part  of  the  tiger  and  rather  grim  in  its  results. 
In  the  cage  next  the  tiger's,  and  hidden  from  his 
view  by  a  board  partition,  was  a  tamandua,  or 
ant-bear,  a  singular-looking  creature  that  lives 
in  its  native  country  upon  ants,  capturing 
myriads  of  these  little  insects  by  means  of  an 
abnormally  long  tongue,  coated  with  a  sticky 
substance  to  which  the  ants  adhere.  This  tongue 
the  captive  ant-bear  often  thrust  out  and  moved 
about  in  an  inquisitive  way.  In  an  evil  hour  it 
discovered  a  hole  in  the  partition  separating  it 
from  the  tiger.  The  tiger  was  lazil}'  stretched 
at  length,  one  day,  when  this  long  tongue  came 
into  his  cage.  His  first  manifestation  of  dis- 
pleasure was  an  ugly  snarl,  his  next  a  quick 
blow  with  its  claw-armed  paw.  The  ant-bear 
never  repeated  its  experiment. 

Vol.  XVII.— 10. 

When  the  trees 
are  bare  and  Nature 
has  drawn  her  fleecy  snow-curtain  over  tlie  spec- 
tacle of  green  field  and  flower-sprinkled  hillside, 
we  may  naturally  give  a  thought  to  the  slumber- 
ing vitality  under  that  soft  white  draper)-.  The 
tenderest  hearts  will  feel  almost  pity  for  the 
thousands  of  seeds  and  roots  doomed  to  an  icy 
bed  during  a  long  winter ;  yet  those  same  hearts 
will  thrill  with  unalloyed  delight  at  the  snap- 
ping, crackling,  frantic  mass  of  popping  com, — 
a  live  seed,  every  one, —  although  at  each  pop 
a  grain  is  forced  into  grotesque  and  unnatural 
blossoming.  The  ear  of  corn  has  perhaps  suf- 
fered a  harder  fate  by  being  garnered  and  housed 
only  to  be  roasted  alive.  But,  notwithstanding 
there  is  life  in  each  seed,  just  as  certainly  as 
there  is  in  a  hen's  egg,  we  may  be  sure  that  the 
sacrifice  of  its  tiny  vital  existence  is  absolutely 
painless ;  and  the  more  spiritual  of  us  may  reach 
a  higher  plane  of  satisfaction  by  accepting  its 
pure  white  expansions,  after  the  fatal  heat,  as 
metaphorical  angels'  wings. 

^Vhile  we  sit  around  the  cozy  hearth  with  red- 
dened cheeks,  after  the  bombardment  in  our  pop- 
per has  ceased  and  the  munching  has  begun,  let 
us  listen  to  a  short  story  about  this  transformation 
which,  in  a  twinkling,  changes  the  yellow,  stony 
little  kernel  into  a  tender,  white,  delicious  morsel, 
monstrous  and  ragged.  What  is  the  power  and 
process  of  this  fantastic  jugglery  ?  Like  all 
white  magic,  it  is  simple  when  understood ;  and 
knowing  the  secret,  we  may  find  intellectual 
pleasure  also  in  what  is  so  fascinating  to  the  eye 
and  so  grateful  to  the  palatg. 

Under  favorable  circumstances  one  may  oc- 
casionally see,  while  po])ping  com,  little  puffs 
of  white  vapor  issuing  from  the  popper.  One 
might  reasonably  presume  this  to  be  steam  or 
water-vapor ;  but,  in  order  to  make  sure  of  it,  I 
popped  half-a-dozen  grains  in  a  small  beaker, 
the  mouth  of  which  was  stopped  loosely  with  a 
cork,  holding  the  beaker  over  a  gas  flame.  The 
result  was  the  generation  of  so  much  steam  that 
it  hissed  out  around  the  cork  and  gave  my  fin- 
gers a  lively  sensation  of  heat.  This  seemed 
almost  conclusive  on  that  point,  but  it  occurred 
to  me  to  weigh  the  com  before  and  after  pop- 
ping, and  this  led  to  the  discovery  that  more 
than  ten  per  cent,  of  the  weight  of  the  corn  is 
lost  in  the  process,  and  this  loss  is  doubtless  the 
water  which  escapes.  So  that  our  popperful  of 
com  —  a  bulk  between  fifty  and  one  hundred 
times  as  great  as  it  was  originally  —  really  weighs 
less  than  when  we  started !  But  this  only  half 
explains  what  takes  i)lace  when  the  grain  ex- 
plodes. It  is  not  quite  plain  why  the  expanding 
steam  should  puff  the  com  out  into  a  crisp  white 
mass  instead  of  blowing  it  to  atoms,  and  the  real 
inwardness  of  the  matter  will  be  apparent  only 
by  comparing  the  structure  of  the  seed  as  Nature 
has  finished  it  with  its  structure  after  it  is  popped. 
To  do  this,  we  must  cut  a  very  thin  slice,  thinner 
than  this  paper,  through  the  middle  of  the  grain 
of  com,  and  magnify  it  very  highly.  Figure  i 
shows  a  very  small  part  of  such  a  slice  as  it  ap- 
peared under  my  microscope.  If  the  whole 
grain  could  be  seen  enlarged  to  the  same  extent, 
it  would  stand  higher  than  one's  head  and  look 
like  an  immense  bowlder.    Now  the  whole  grain 


is  made  up  of  little  sacs,  or  bags,  which  botanists 
call  '•  cells,"  and  the  figure  represents  a  group 
of  these  cells  from  the  center  of  a  grain  of  rice- 
corn  as  they  appear  in  a  slice,  much  in  the 
same  way  as  we  see  the  sacs  in  a  thin  slice 
of  lemon,  only  in  the  com  they  are,  of  course. 

far  too  small  to  be  seen  by  the  naked  eye. 
The  heavier  lines  show  the  boundaries  of  the 
cells.  Each  cell,  of  which  there  are  thousands 
in  the  entire  grain,  is  packed  tightly  mth  little 
granules  of  starch.  These  are  shown  in  the  fig- 
ure completely  filling  up  the  cells,  and  it  is  to 
this  compact  arrangement  of  starch-granules  that 
the  com  owes  its  hardness.  Much  the  greater 
part  of  the  grain  consists  of  these  cells  crowded 
full  of  starch,  although  the  remainder  is  really 
the  most  important,  %-ital  part :  that  is,  the  em- 
br)-o,  which  under  proper  conditions  initiates 
the  growth  of  the  seed;  the  starch  being  merely 
a  little  store  of  food  upon  which  the  young  shoot 
feeds  until  it  is  established  and  able  to  take  care 
of  itself.  And,  by  the  way,  the  cereals  which 
are  so  extensively  used  as  food  are,  like  the  com, 
largely  composed  of  this  same  substance,  starch. 
Understanding  now  what  there  is  in  the  kernel 
of  com,  let  us  look  at  a  thin  slice  of  the  same 
com  after  it  is  popped,  and  see  if  we  can  make 
out  what  has  become  of  the  cells  and  the  starch. 
Figure  2  shows  such  a  slice,  magnified  to  the 
same  extent  as  the  first,  as  well  as  it  can  be 
represented  by  a  diagram,  for  its  delicacy  and 
transparency  can  not  be  readily  represented  on 
paper.  Here  we  have  apparently  a  similar 
structure  of  cells;  but  compare  their  size  with  the 
other  slice.  They  are  smaller  than  the  original 
cells  and  much  larger  than  the  starch-granules, 
so  it  is  reasonable  to  conclude  that  these  ap- 
parent cells  are  the  starch-granules  themselves 


swelled  up  by  the  steam.  This  is  the  fact ;  so 
they  are  not  cells  at  all  in  the  botanical  sense. 
Simple  chemical  tests  prove  that  they  are  starch. 
But  the  granules  are  no  longer  solid ;  they  have 
been  blown  up  into  vesicles,  or  balloons,  and  the 
steam  in  forcing  its  escape  not  only  ruptures 
many  of  the  vesicles,  but  splits  and  tears  its 
way  all  through  the  mass,  making  rifts  and  chan- 
nels leading  to  the  air.  Most  of  them  are  too 
minute,  however,  to  be  seen  with  the  naked  eye. 
The  figure  shows  one  of  these  rifts,  and  the  ragged 
edges  of  the  ruptured  vesicles  can  be  seen.  On 
the  right  side,  part  of  the  broken  cell-wall  is  in- 





dicated.  Only  the  starchy  part  pops ;  the  em- 
bryo, of  which  I  have  spoken,  simply  shrinks 
and  turns  brown. 

We  may  yet  speculate  on  the  details  of  the 
process.  In  what  condition  is  the  interior  of  the 
grain  just  before  it  explodes  ?  The  common  ex- 
perience of  the  kitchen  and  laundry  will  help  us 
here.  In  making  up  the  mixture  for  stiffening 
clothes,  the  laundress  puts  starch  into  water  and 
boils  it,  and  we  all  know  that  in  this  process  the 
starch  loses  its  powdery  character  and  becomes 
blended  with  the  water  into  a  pasty,  translucent 
mass.  The  effect  upon  the  individual  starch- 
granule  is  a  softening  and  considerable  increase 
of  its  bulk  and,  finally,  its  rupture  and  diffusion 
through  the  water.  While  we  can  not  see  the 
inside  of  the  grain  at  the  critical  moment  when 
it  has  all  but  burst,  we  may,  in  view  of  what  we 
now  know,  probably  surmise  the  truth.  Is  it  not 
very  likely  that,  as  the  grain  gets  hotter  and 
hotter,  the  moisture  present  in  the  cells,  or  in 
the  starch-granules  themselves,  softens  them  first, 
and  then,  when  the  heat  becomes  too  great  to 
permit  its  remaining  in  the  fluid  state,  it  suddenly 
turns  to  steam,  and  the  now  plastic  starch  ex- 



pands  in  every  direction  forming  the  little  vesicles 
shown  in  the  figure,  losing  at  the  same  time,  of 
course,  the  moisture  and  thus  becoming  firm 
and  brittle  again  ? 

This  is  the  conclusion  to  which  I  have  been 
brought,  and  I  think  of  the  wonderful  physics 
of  popped  com  with  great  satisfaction  whenever 
I  shake  my  popper  over  the  glowing  coals. 


By  Hattie  Whitney. 

What  cheer  is  there  that  is  half  so  good. 
In  the  snowy  waste  of  a  winter  night, 

As  a  dancing  fire  of  hickory  wood. 
And  an  easy-chair  in  its  mellow  light, 

And  a  pearmain  apple,  ruddy  and  sleek. 

Or  a  jenneting  with  a  freckled  cheek  ? 

A  russet  apple  is  fair  to  view. 

With  a  tawny  tint  like  an  autumn  leaf, 

The  warmth  of  a  ripened  corn-field's  hue. 
Or  golden  hint  of  a  harvest  sheaf; 

And  the  wholesome  breath  of  the  finished  year 

Is  held  in  a  winesap's  blooming  sphere. 

They  bring  you  a  thought  of  the  orchard  trees, 
In  blossomy  April  and  leafy  June, 

And  the  sleepy  droning  of  bumble-bees. 
In  the  lazy  light  of  the  afternoon, 

And  tangled  clover  and  bobolinks, 

Tiger-lilies  and  garden  pinks. 

If  you  've  somewhere  left,  with  its  gables  wide, 
A  farm-house  set  in  an  orchard  old. 

You  '11  see  it  all  in  the  winter-tide 
At  sight  of  a  pippin's  green-and-gold, 

Or  a  pearmain  apple,  ruddy  and  sleek. 

Or  a  jenneting  with  a  freckled  cheek. 


By  M.  Helen  Lovett. 

S  AMMA !  Mamma ! "  cried 
Kittie  Perry,  running 
into  the  house  early 
one  afternoon  and 
throwing  down  her 
school  -  books,  "  the 
new  people  are  mov- 
ing in  next  door." 

"  So  I  see,  Kittie," 
said  Mrs.  Perry. 
"  And,  Mamma,  there  's  a  httle  girl  there  just 
about  as  big  as  me.  I  just  saw  her  going  in. 
I  'm  awfully  glad !  I  'm  'most  crazy  for  some 
one  to  play  with  since  the  Cooks  went  away. 
May  Kingsley  's  the  only  other  girl  on  the 
block,  and  we  're  having  a  tiff  now.  I  'm  going 
right  in  to  see  that  girl  and  find  out  what  her 
name  is." 

"  Kittie  !  "  said  her  mother,  catching  her  just 
in  time  as  she  was  flying  out  of  the  room,  "  you 
must  not  go.  The  little  girl's  mother  would  n't 
like  it.  I  'm  sure  I  should  n't  have  wished  the 
neighbors'  children  to  come  in  here  the  day  we 
moved.  We  had  confusion  enough  without 

"  But,  Mamma,  I  must,  for  I  need  some  one 
to  play  with,  and  May  Kingsley  and  I  are  angry 
at  each  other  and  I  can't  speak  to  her  for  a 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  will  not  be  able  to  do  that, 
Kittie,"  said  Mamma,  laughing. 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,"  said  Kittie,  with  a  sigh. 
"  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  was.  I  wanted  to  play 
jackstones,  and  May  wanted  to  play  paper  dolls, 
and  —  "  Mamma  was  trying  to  write  a  letter, 
but  Kittie's  tongue  kept  on  pitilessly  for  ten 
minutes.  Then  she  paused  to  take  breath. 
"  Well,  that  's  the  reason  I  can't  speak  to  her 
for  a  week.  Mamma,  and  I  must  have  some  one 
to  play  with.  So,  Mamma,  why  can't  I  go  in 
and  see  the  girl  next  door  ?  " 

"I  've  told  you  why,  Kittie.    And  now  you 

must  not  talk  to  me  any  more  until  I  've  finished 
this  letter." 

But  Kittie  kept  on  talking  as  she  stood  by 
the  window,  for  to  talk  to  herself  was  better 
than  nothing.  "  There  's  a  sled ;  that  's  a  girl's 
sled,  and  I  don't  see  any  other,  so  I  suppose  it  's 
the  girl's.  There  are  a  doll's  carriage  and  two 
dolls'  trunks.  Why  does  n't  the  man  turn  them 
so  I  can  see  better  ?  There !  Why,  there  's  a 
name  on  the  end  !  C-a — oh,  I  see,  Carrie;  no, 
Clara, —  Clara  L.  Parsons.  That  's  a  pretty 
name.     Oh,  dear  !  I  wish  to-morrow  'd  come." 

To-morrow  did  come, — that  is,  the  next  day 
did  (some  people  say  "  to-nuvroiu  does  n't"), — 
but  it  rained,  and  Kittie  could  n't  go  out  in  the 
afternoon.  Thursday,  however,  when  she  came 
home  from  school,  her  new  little  neighbor  was 
sitting  on  the  piazza  with  one  of  the  trunks  open 
before  her,  and  a  beautiful  doll  on  her  lap. 
Kittie  glanced  at  her,  and  the  little  girl  looked 
so  friendly  that  Kittie  nodded.  Her  neighbor 
nodded  in  reply.  Kittie  went  up  the  steps. 
"  Would  n't  you  like  me  to  come  and  play  with 
you  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  little  girl  looked  as  if  she  would,  but  did 
not  make  any  reply. 

"  She  's  shy,"  said  Kittie  to  herself.  "  How 
funny."  Then  aloud,  "I  '11  get  my  doll;  only 
it  is  n't  nice  as  yours.  Shall  I  ?  "  The  girl 

Kittie  ran  into  her  own  home,  and  up  to  the 
play-room,  where  she  snatched  up  her  best  doll, 
rejecting  the  second  best  as  not  grand  enough 
to  associate  with  Clara  L.  Parsons  and  her 

"  Mamma,"  she  called  out,  "  I  'm  going  to 
play  with  the  girl  next  door." 

"  Did  she  ask  you,  Kittie  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Perry, 
coming  into  the  hall. 

"Yes,  Mamma;  at  least,  I  asked  if  I  should 
come,  and  she  said  yes.  She  would  have  asked 
me,  I  know,  but  she  seems  shy ! " 



"  Well,  you  can  go  for  a  few  minutes.  Don't 
stay  long."     Kittie  rushed  off. 

The  little  girl  was  sitting  with  her  back  turned, 
and  did  not  move  until  Kittie  came  all  the  way 
up  the  steps ;  but  then  she  gave  a  pleased  look 
of  welcome. 

"  Here  's  my  doll,"  .said  Kittie,  sitting  down. 
"  It  is  n't  as  nice  as  yours,  is  it  ?  "  Clara  nodded. 
Kittie  thought  her  a  very  polite  girl,  for  Bella 
was  only  two-thirds  the  size  of  Clara's  doll. 
"  Her  name  's  Bella,"  she  announced.  "  What 
is  your  doll's  name  ?  I  suppose  Clara  Parsons 
is  your  name,  is  n't  it  ?  I  see  Parsons  there  on 
your  door-i)late.  Oh,  may  I  look  at  the  things 
in  your  trunk  ?  What  a  lovely  party-dress  !  Did 
you  make  it  ?  No,  I  guess  you  did  n't,  'cause  I 
see  part  of  it  's  made  on  the  machine,  and  I 
don't  suppose  you  can  sew  on  the  machine. 
Mamma  wont  let  me  touch  ours.  I  made 
that  blue  dress,  though, —  almost  all  myself. 
What  darling  dolls'  handkerchiefs,  and  oh,  what 
lovely  little  visiting-cards!  'Stella  Parsons'; 
is  that  her  name  ?  Stella  rhymes  with  Bella, 
does  n't  it?  they  ought  to  be  friends;  let  's 
introduce  them." 

She  held  Bella  up  toward  Stella,  and  Clara 
held  up  Stella  and  made  her  shake  hands  with 
her  visitor  and  then  kiss  her. 

"  Now  they  're  acquainted,"  said  Kittie.  "  Let 
us  pretend  they  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  each 
other,  as  I  have  to  you.  1  wish  you  'd  be  my 
best  friend,  for  I  have  n't  one  now.  Fanny 
Cook  used  to  be,  but  she  's  moved  away ;  she 
lived  in  that  yellow  house  across  the  way  ;  and 
May  Kingsley  is  n't ;  we  get  mad  at  each  other; 
and  she  talks  so  much ;  if  you  tell  her  a  secret, 
everybody  is  sure  to  know  it.  Oh,  my  name  's 
Kittie  Perry ;  I  did  n't  tell  you,  did  I  ?  My 
brother's  name  's  Frank,  and  my  sister's  name 
is  Amy,  but  they  're  both  big,  nearly  grown  up, 
so  I  don't  have  any  one  home  to  play  with.  That 
lady  at  the  second-story  window  is  your  mother, 
I  suppose  ?  That  's  my  mother  in  a  blue  dress 
—  on  our  stoop  just  now.  That  lady  in  brown 
that  went  in  with  her  is  Mrs.  Fraim.  She  's 
deaf  and  dumb.  Did  you  ever  know  anybody 
who  was  ?  It  's  so  funny  to  see  them  talk.  I 
can  say  a  few  words.  See.  This  means  man  ; 
this  means  woman ;  this  means  dinner ; .  tliis 
means  a  bouquet  of  flowers." 



Kittie  made  the  morions  as  she  spoke,  and 
Clara,  smiling  brightly  and  looking  pleased, 
made  them  too,  but  much  more  deftly  and 
gracefully  than  Kittie. 

"  And  this  means  a  baby  with  long  clothes," 
continued  Kittie.  Clara  shook  her  head,  and 
made  a  motion  a  little  difierent. 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  is  it,"  said  Kittie.  "  How 
quick  you  learn !  I  '11  teach  you  some  more 
some  day  ;  then,  if  you  ever  meet  a  deaf  person, 
you  can  talk  to  them.  But  it  must  be  dreadful, 
must  n't  it  ? — to  be  deaf  and  dumb,  and  not  to 
be  able  to  talk.  Why,  /  '</  tiie  .'"  (I  almost  be- 
lieve Kittie  would.)  "And  their  language  — 
why  I  could  n't  talk  as  much  in  a  minute  as  in 
a  week  in  our  way  —  no,  no,  I  mean  in  a  week 
as  in  a  minute.     Oh,  what  are  you  doing  ?  " 

Clara  had  taken  Bella  and  removed  her  dress. 
She  then  picked  uj)  the  dress  that  Kittie  had 
admired,  and  holding  it  against  Stella  showed 
that  it  was  too  small ;  then  buttoning  it  on  Bella 
she  laid  the  doll  back  in  Kittie's  lap  and  looked 
up  with  a  smile. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  give  it  to  me  ?  "  cried  Kit- 
tie,  delighted.  "  Oh,  you  darling  !  It  's  aw- 
fully pretty.  Kiss  the  lady,  Bella,  my  child. 
Now  I  ought  to  do  something  for  Stella.  Let 
me  see, —  when  she  has  the  measles,  you  send  for 
me,  'cause  I  've  had  experience.  She  '11  be  sure 
to  get  them  ;  they  're  very  relci'ant  this  spring. 
Oh,  dear,  there  's  Mamma  calling  me.  Wait 
here,  and  I  '11  be  back  soon." 

Mrs.  Perry  had  called  Kittie  to  go  upstairs 
and  try  on  her  new  dress,  and  this  occupied 
nearly  half  an  hour.  When  she  returned  to  the 
piazza  next  door,  Clara  had  gone  and  so  had 
Stella  and  her  trunk.  Only  Bella  remained, 
sitting  on  the  doorstep  in  the  party-dress  which 
had  been  presented  to  her,  and  holding  in  her 
lap  a  piece  of  paper  on  which  was  written,  in  a 
round,  childish,  but  neat  and  legible  hand  :  "  I 
can't  wait  any  longer  for  you.  I  'm  going  out 
with  Mamma.     Come  again  to-morrow." 

Kittie  came  late  to  the  tea-table  that  evening, 
and  did  not  notice  at  first  that  everybody  was 
very  much  amused  at  something. 

"  Kittie,"  said  Frank,  "  did  you  get  acquainted 
with  the  girl  next  door  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  's  awfully  nice ;  her  name  's  Clara 
Parsons.     What  made  you  call  me  in,  that  time, 



Mamma  ?  She  said  she  could  n't  play  much 
longer,  she  had  to  go  out  with  her  mother ;  and 
when  I  came  back  she  was  gone." 

"  Did  you  have  much  conversation  with  her?  " 
asked  Papa. 

"  Yes,  Papa ;  I  think  I  was  there  half  an 

"  It  was  more  than  an  hour,"  said  Amy. 
"  I  saw  you.  But  I  think  you  did  all  the 
talking    yourself." 

Kiltie  was  indignant  at  this  accusation,  al- 
though it  was  not  a  new  one.  "  It  would  n't  be 
very  polite  to  go  and  see  a  person  and  never 
say  a  word,  would  it  ?  "  she  said. 

"  You  '11  never  be  so  impohte,  certainly,"  said 

"  And  she  gave  me  the  prettiest  dress  for 
Bella.  It  was  one  that  was  in  her  doll's  trunk, 
but  it  was  too  small  for  her  doll.  I  '11  show  it 
to  you  after  tea." 

"  Now,  Kittie,"  said  Mamma,  "  try  to  remem- 
ber the  exact  words  she  said  about  the  dress,  or 
about  anything  else  you  talked  of." 

"  The  exact  words,"  repeated  Kittie,  slowly. 
She  looked  thoughtful,  then  perplexed.  "  It  's 
queer,  but  somehow  I  forget  the  e.xact  words." 

"  Well,  Kittie,  we  don't  blame  you.  Mrs. 
Fraim  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  she  was 
speaking  about  the  family  next  door,  the  Par- 
sons. .She  knows  them  very  well ;  and  this  little 
girl  —  her  name  is  Clara  —  is  deaf  and  dumb. 
She  can't  speak  a  word." 

Kittie  dropped  the  biscuit  she  was  eating,  and 
the  blankness  which  overspread  her  face  was 
too  much  for  the  gravity  of  the  family.  They  all 
laughed.  ■ 

"  So,  Kittie,"  said  Papa,  "  you  must  have  had 


all  the  talk  to  yourself,  and,  if  I  know  you,  you 
must  have  enjoyed  it  exceedingly!" 

Kittie  still  looked  so  dazed  that  Mamma  came 
to  her  assistance. 

"  What  did  she  say  about  going  out  with  her 
mother  ?  " 

"  Why — she  wrote  that;  but  that  was  because 
I  was  away." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  when  she  gave  you 
the  doll's  dress  ?  " 

"  She  put  it  on  Bella  and  handed  it  to  me. 
Maybe  she  did  n't  say  anything." 

"  And  did  she  tell  you  her  name  was  Clara 
Parsons  ?  " 

'■  Yes  —  why  —  well,  I  asked  her  and  she  said 
yes; — no,  I  believe  she  nodded.  She  nodded 
quite  often.  But  if  she  can't  hear  how  could 
she  tell  when  to  nod  ?  " 

Kittie  asked  this  triumphantly. 

"  Mrs.  Fraim  says  she  is  a  bright  little  thing, 
and  often  can  tell  what  people  are  saying  by 
watching  their  lips ;  and  then  perhaps  she  thought 
it  was  polite  to  agree  with  you  even  when  she 
did  n't  understand." 

"  Now  perhaps  you  '11  believe  how  much  you 
talk,"  said  Frank.  "  I  promise  you  ten  cents  if 
you  keep  quiet  all  the  rest  of  tea-time,  because 
I  know  you  can't." 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  said  Kittie  ;  "  but  I  'm  not 
going  to." 

The  other  day,  when  I  was  calling  on  Mrs. 
Perry,  I  asked,  "  How  is  the  little  girl  ne.xt  door 
whom  I  heard  about,  Kittie  ?  " 

"  She  's  lovely,"  said  Kittie.  "  I  'm  going 
to  have  her  for  my  best  friend;  I  don't  care 
who  laughs.       I  can  tell  all  my  secrets  to  /u-r." 


A    RACE    WITH     A    WOODEN    SHOE. 

By  Frederick  E.  Partington. 

TELL  of  a  shoe  and  a  boy; 
of  a  bicycle  and  the  river 
Rhine, —  of  the  Rhine  that 
creeps  through  a  town 
where  years  ago  the  mayor 
and  coq)oration,  all  for 
love  of  the  children  and  the 
fear  of  a  chance  false  note, 
banished  all  the  hand-or- 
gans and  the  hurdy-gurdies 
beyond  the  city  walls.  And 
yet  there  is  music  still  in  the 
streets  of  the  old  town, — 
that  same  familiar,  inces- 
sant, ringing  melody  rising 
forever  from  all  the  pave- 
ments of  Northern  Eu- 
rope,—  the  music  of  the  wooden  shoes.  It  was 
Gretchen  who  played  on  them  as  she  galloped 
across  the  court-yard  before  sunrise ;  it  was  the 
butcher,  the  baker,  the  candlestick  maker 
who  played  on  them  as  they  clattered  so  early 
along  the  gabled  streets  of  the  city ;  it  was 
surely  the  fish-wives  and  the  flower-girls  and 
the  milk-maids  and  blue-bloused  Dieruimaniier 
who  pounded  them  on  the  pavements  of  the 
market-place  and  sent  up  a  symphony  of 
clickity-clicks  and  laughter ;  but  better  than  all 
the  rest,  it  was  a  thousand  children,  on  a  glori- 
ous afternoon,  who  rushed  out  of  school — a 
common  Volkschule — and  made  earth  and  air 
and  sky  ring  with  the  music  of  their  wooden 

The  rain  was  over,  the  sun  was  bursting  forth 
in  floods  of  strange  yellow  light,  and  torrents  of 
water  rushed  madly  along  the  gutters.  Verily, 
was  there  ever  a  ri\'er  so  mighty  and  delightful 
to  boys  as  this  sw-oUen  street-tide  after  the 
storm  ?  How  they  go  plunging  to  the  depths 
of  it  I  And  how  these  hundreds  of  lads,  \nth 
knapsacks  on  their  backs,  yelled  with  glee  when 
they  saw  it.  It  was  the  work  of  a  second  to 
strip  off  the  stockings  and  cram  them  into  pock- 

ets along  with  the  strings  and  the  marbles, —  the 
work  of  a  second  to  do  this,  and,  with  a  wooden 
shoe  in  either  hand,  rush  to  the  flooded  street 
and  cry,  "  Who  '11  have  a  race  ?  " 

"/£■//  !—Ach-ja  .'—Ich  audi  !—Ich  —  Ich  !  " 
rang  through  the  streets  like  the  cries  of  the  hot 
crusaders.  Every  boy  and  a  hundred  girls  ac- 
cepted the  challenge.  And  so,  on  either  side 
the  way,  they  ranged  themselves,  and  into  the 
rushing  gutters  launched  their  wooden  shoes ! 
It  was  a  sight  for  St.  Nicholas !  Never  since 
the  carnivals  of  Venice  or  the  day  of  the  great 
Armada  had  there  floated  a  fleet  so  wonderful 
as  this!  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  shoes, — 
large  ones,  small  ones,  broad  ones,  and  narrow 
ones,  black  and  red  and  yellow  and  gray,  some 
bright  with  the  trappings  of  leather  and  brass, 
some  hastily  rigged  with  a  pencil  for  mainmast 
and  paper  for  a  sail,  but  all  of  them  buoyant  and 
whizzing  and  careering  along  like  the  bouncing 
galleys  of  the  olden  time.  The  street  rocked 
with  excitement,  and  the  excitement  rose  to 
battle-cries  when,  as  in  all  great  races,  the 
shoes  began  to  show  individual  qualities  and 
fall  into  classes  —  the  great  craft  scudding 
ahead  and  the  smaller  ones  forging  along  in 
one  mad  mob  behind. 

The  course  lay  through  the  gutters  of  a  long 
narrow  street,  unbroken  by  cross-ways  for  an 
eighth  of  a  mile,  when  the  rain-river  suddenly 
ended  by  turning  abruptly  and  diving  into  a 
sewer.  This  seemed  to  be  generally  known  by 
the  children,  for  they  took  good  care  to  follow 
the  shoes  to  the  corner  and  snatch  them  up  in 
time  to  save  them  from  a  very  yawning  and 
horrible  abyss. 

The  race  of  the  big  boats  had  finished ;  the 
owners  had  rushed  back  to  the  start  again,  and 
now  down  the  foaming  torrent  came  bobbing 
and  bumping  away  the  fleet  of  younger  craft. 
Litde  mattered  it  to  the  children — the  question 
of  center-board  sloops  and  cutters !  It  was 
simply   a   fleet   of  chubby   little   smacks    with 



pointed  noses  and  fluted  decks,  and  gay  leather,  '■Juch'"  screamed  the  boys,  "Oswald  wins! 

and   brazen   nails   around    the   gunwales.     On  Now  grab  thy  shoe  or  thou 'It  lose  it!" 

came  the  yachts,  on  flew  the  children.     A  hun-  It  was  the  acme  of  genuine  excitement.  There 

dred  feet,  and  the  race  is  over.  followed  a  wild  scramble  for  the  shoes.    Oswald 


"  See  the  little  red-trimmed  shoe,"  yelled  a 
boy  with  eyes  like  saucers!  "See!  —  it  's 
mine !  " 

"  And  see  the  black  one  with  a  sail  ! "  cried  a 
girl,  joyfully.    "  That  's  mine  !  " 

The  race  was  clearly  between  the  two.     Fifty 
feet — thirty  feet  —  twenty  feet — ten!  —  and  the 
red-trimmed  one  was  far  ahead  ! 
Vol..  XVII.— u. 

the  winner,  frantic  with  joy,  sprang  forward  to 
catch  his  own,  when  alas !  alas  !  he  tripped  and 
fell ;  and  alas !  and  ten  times  alas !  away  shot 
the  shoe,  turned  the  fatal  comer,  and  swish!  — 
disappeared  through  the  great  black  hole  of  the 
.sewer!  Poor  Oswald  and  his  fellows  stood  dazed. 
Never  in  his  whole  nine  years  of  life  had  Os- 
wald known  a  calamity  such  as  this. 


A    RACE    WITH    A    WOODEN    SHOE. 


"  It  's  gone  !  It  's  lost !  Ach  !  It  's  lost !  "  he 
cried,  wringing  his  hands  while  the  tears  rained 
down  his  cheeks. 

And  there  was  no  help  for  it.  ^Vhat  mattered 
it  to  Oswald  even  if  some  tender-hearted  boys 

and  wth  the  confused  and  liberal  prompting  of 
the  e-xcited  throng,  he  quickly  told  the  story. 

Seth  listened  perplexed,  till  suddenly,  all  like 
a  flash,  came  a  thought  to  his  bright  little  mind. 

"  Hurrah  !  "  he  cried  almost  aloud.   And  then. 


"*7  i/Ji  >     ^ 


rHli     KACH.         (SKK     NKXr     I'AOK.) 

t/iif  offer  him  their  marbles  ?  What  mattered  it 
even  if  a  sweet  little  maiden  ///</  try  to  console 
him  and  wipe  the,  tears  from  his  eyes  with  the 
comer  of  her  checkered  ajiron  ?  Nay,  the  whole 
world  was  nothing,  compared  to  that  shoe.  It 
was  lost;  and  if  be  had  to  go  home  without  it, 
he  knew  that  he  might  as  well  have  been  lost 
himself.  His  grief  was  desperate,  and  sdll  he 
stood  weeping  and  still  the  children  vainly 
offered  sympathy,  when  round  the  comer  ap- 
peared Seth  Hardy  on  his  bicycle.  It  was  about 
the  only  one  in  the  whole  town  where  Seth  was 
attending  school,  and  there  was  not  a  boy  or 
a  girl  to  whom  the  magic  wheel  and  its  rider 
were  not  well  known. 

'•  See  the  Amcrikaner  /  "  cried  the  crowd,  as 
Seth  came  whirling  along. 

He  spied  the  troop  of  children,  noticed  Os- 
wald in  tears,  and  stopped  to  leam  the  cause. 

"  Ach  !  mein  Herr,  it 's  gone  —  lost !  " 

"  What  is  gone  ?  " 

"  My  shoe,  my  shoe  I  "  And  between  the  sobs. 

with  right  forefinger  in  the  palm  of  his  left  hand, 
— just  as  Herr  Dr.  N.  of  the  school  always 
did, —  he  reasoned  it  out  so  quickly  that  the  Ger- 
man boys  stood  dumb  with  wonder.  "  Also  !  " 
he  continued,  half  in  German,  "  gutter  to  sewer 
— sewer  to — it  must  turn  into  Schumann 
.Strasse,  run  along  Wilhelm  Strasse,  and  then, 
bang  I  into  the  Rhine  !  " 

And  before  a  lad  of  them  could  say  Jack 
Robinson  in  (ierman,  off  flew  Seth  on  his 
bicycle  toward  the  river.  Scores  and  scores  of 
children  rushed  panting  and  shouting  after  him, 
while  httle  Oswald  Keller,  with  a  lone  shoe 
under  his  arm,  dashed  the  tears  away,  and, 
though  hardly  realizing  what  it  all  meant,  sped 
like  a  deer  two  rods  ahead  of  them  all.  A  whirl 
to  the  left,  a  spin  of  a  block,  a  whirl  to  the  right, 
and  Seth  had  reached  the  Rhine.  The  rains 
of  many  days  had  swollen  it  to  the  danger  point 
and  the  water  was  still  rising.  Another  foot 
and,  instead  of  the  sewers  rushing  into  the  Rhine, 
the  Rhine  would  be  rushing  into  the  sewers. 


A    RACE    WITH   A    WOODEN    SHOE. 

Jumping  from  his  wheel,  Seth  ran  to  the  bank, 
peered  up  and  down  and  caught  the  spot  where, 
whiding  in  muddy  commotion,  the  sewer  met 
the  river.  Thither  he  flew, —  the  crowd  with 
him, —  when,  just  as  he  had  snatched  an  oar  for 
stopping  the  fugitive  the  moment  it  appeared, 
a  hundred  throats  yelled  in  a  tremble  of  excite- 
ment, "  Ach  !  The  shoe  !  The  shoe  !  "  And 
lo !  out  from  the  black  hole  and  far  into  the 
stream  shot  the  wooden  shoe.  Seth  had  not 
been  quick  enough,  and  now  it  was  beyond  his 
reach.  He  saw  it  whirl  and  whirl,  and  dally  in 
an  eddy ;  and  then,  to  his  dismay  and  the  grief 
of  them  all,  saw  it  slowly  enter  the  main  current 
and  speed  away  to  the  north. 

'■  Stay  here,"  cried  Seth  excitedly  to  Oswald 
and  the  rest.  "Stay  here — I  '11  soon  be  back," 
and  jumping  on  the  bicycle  again,  he  laid  his 
head  close  to  the  very  handle  and  vanished 
down  the  road  that  wound  along  the  river. 

"  'T  is  a  race  with  the  Rhine,"  he  thought, 
"  and  it 's  a  poor  wheel  that  can't  win  it !  "  And 
away  he  went,  till  after  a  stretch  of  two  miles  he 

came  to  the  bend  and  the  village  of  L . 

The  banks  were  lined  with  boats  and  the  men 
were  busy  bailing  out  and  scouring. 

"It  's  a  shoe!"  screamed  Seth,  as, he  came 
flying  among  them.  "  It  's  a  shoe!  It  's  coming 
yonder — this  side  the  middle  of  the  river — and 
I  '11  give  five  marks  to  any  man  that  picks  it  up ! " 

How  many  men  leaped  into  their  boats,  and 
how  many  boats  shot  into  the  Rhine,  or  what 
the  wives,  and  the  people,  and  the  kind  old  vil- 
lage priest,  and  the  burly  fat  mayor  all  thought 
will  never  be  known ;  but  the  women  stood 
wringing  their  hands,  and  the  priest  said  some- 
thing solemn  in  Latin,  and  the  mayor  took  out 
his  note-book  as  if,  indeed,  a  man  were  drown- 
ing.    But  Seth  saw  nothing  except  the  boats. 


He  saw  them  scatter,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
they  stretched  away  for  miles.  He  saw  them 
stemming  the  current  and  darting  back  and 
forth  like  fish  ;  and  then  of  a  sudden  he  heard  a 
cry  and  saw  the  boats  all  inilling  for  the  shoe. 
He  saw  —  ah  I  joy  of  earth  !  —  it  was  the  shoe  ! 
and  the  boatmen  coming  reverently  forward  and 
mumbling,  and  bowing,  and  .stammering,  and 
placing  at  last  in  his  hands  the  precious  little 
red-bound  runaway. 

The  mayor  stared,  the  priest  stared,  the  women 
stared.  "And  the  body  ?"  they  gasped.  '-Where 
is  the  body?  " 

Seth  was  too  excited  to  explain.  He  flung 
the  five  marks  to  the  man,  jumped  to  his  wheel 
again,  and,  while  the  people  chattered  and  shook 
their  heads,  he  vanished,  it  seemed  to  them,  into 
the  very  skies  above. 

And  so  he  came  speedily  to  where  the  chil- 
dren waited,  and  amid  the  shouts  of  bravo .'  and 
blessings  he  restored  the  .shoe  to  little  Oswald ; 
and  then  with  the  happy  owner  he  went  to  the 
humble  home  and,  telling  the  tale  to  the  mother 
Gretchen,  begged  the  shoes  away  for  the  price 
of  a  new  and  a  better  pair. 

And  it  came  to  pass  after  many,  many  months, 
when  Seth  had  left  school  and  had  returned  to 
his  home  in  America,  that  everybody  would  ask 
about  a  funny  little  shoe  that  stood  with  the 
cups,  and  the  vases,  and  the  beautiful  bric-a- 
brac  in  the  nooks  of  a  fine  old  library.  It  was 
the  same  wonderful  shoe  of  which  you  have 
just  been  reading.  I  am  sure  it  is  the  shoe,  for 
here  it  is  before  my  very  eyes,  with  the  same 
pointed  toe,  and  the  same  fluted  upper  and 
the  same  gay  leather  and  shiny  brass  nails  that 
it  had  on  the  day  when  it  sailed  in  the  streets 
and  under  the  ground  and  raced  with  a  bicycle 
down  the  swollen  Rhine. 






A  WELCOME  to  US  all,  my  hearers  !  Wc  all  have 
been  parted  for  a  time,  and  now  that  November 
brings  us  together  again  in  her  crisp,  sudden  way, 
we  may  as  well  proceed  to  business  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

The  birds,  as  you  know,  bring  many  pleasant  let- 
ters to  your  Jack  from  friends  all  over  the  world, 
but  seldom  has  so  pleasant  a  letter  been  dropped 
on  this  pulpit  as  this  which  you  now  shall  hear: 

Dear  Jack-in-thf.-I'ii.pit  :  Are  you  aware  that  you 
have  an  Italian  cousin,  who  lives  at  Mentone,  and  is 
called  //  Capiiccino /  (the  little  friar.)  There  is  a  clois- 
ter near  by,  where  some  Capuchin  friars  dwell,  and  look 
out  at  the  gay  world  from  beneath  their  brown  hoods. 
But  this  cousin  seem  to  be  a  hermit  as  well  as  a  friar,  for 
he  lives  out-of-doors,  all  by  himself  When  he  preaches 
it  certainly  is  in  the  Italian  language.  But  he  is  not  so 
fortunate  as  to  possess  a  department  of  his  own  in  a 
charming  magazine ;  and  therefore  it  is  probable  he 
knows  much  more  than  he  ever  tells.  His  name  is 
Brother  .\rum  .Arisarum ;  and  he  has  intrusted  to  me  a 
little  rhymed  letter  of  greeting  to  his  American  cousin. 

E.  C. 

I  am  a  little  friar. 

Beneath  a  wild-rose  brier 
I  tell  my  beads  of  dew. 

My  cousin,  I  admire 

Your  preaching,  and  desire 
To  write  some  words  to  you. 

All  in  my  pulpit  green, 
Quite  like  yourself,  I  'm  seen 

When  little  people  go 
Playing  their  games  between 
The  lemon  boughs  that  lean 

From  slopes  of  Monaco. 

'Tis  strange  they  never  task 
My  skill,  nor  questions  ask 

Such  as  to  you  they  bring. 
My  cowl  might  be  mask 
Of  zany,  or  a  cask 

Empty  of  everything! 

They  leave  me  here  alone, 
A  hermit  by  a  stone. 

The  shadowy  woods  within: 
I  think  they  have  not  known 
A.  friend  to  every  one 

Is  the  poor  Capuchin. 

Now  if  you  should  intend 
Some  words  to  me  to  send, 

The  birds,  flying  south,  will  bear  'em ; 
How  gladly  will  I  bend 
My  hood  to  hear  !     Your  friend, 

F7-a  Anttn  Arisaniin. 

I  thank  you  very  much.  Cousin  Arisarum,  for  this 
fair  greeting,  and  commend  to  you  these  thousands 
of  good  children  who,  like  myself,  have  become 
true  friends  of  yours  through  your  gentle  message. 
No  longer  shall  you  feel  alone,  "a  hermit  by  a 
stone,"  for  crowds  and  crowds  of  listening  children 
will  be  near  you,  "the  shadow  y  woods  within,"  ready 
to  catch  the  nod  of  your  little  brown  hood. 

the  knov^ing   woodpecker. 

San  Francisco,  California. 
Dear  Jack  :  In  one  of  your  pleasant  talks  I 
learned  how  Mexican  birds  store  acorns  for  winter 
use.  Here  is  an  extract  from  a  newspaper,  in  which 
it  seems  to  me  the  birds  show  even  more  intelli- 
gence than  their  Mexican  cousins.  Do  any  of  your 
California  readers  know  it  to  be  true?         Avis. 

In  California  the  woodpecker  stores  acorns  away 
although  he  never  cats  them.  He  bores  several  holes 
differing  slightly  in  size,  at  the  fall  of  the  year,  invariably 
in  a  pine  tree.  Then  he  hnds  an  acorn,  which  he  adjusts 
to  one  of  the  holes  prepared  for  its  reception.  But  he 
does  not  eat  the  acorn,  for,  as  a  rule,  he  is  not  a  vegeta-  His  object  in  storing  away  the  acorns  exhibits 
foresight  and  a  knowledge  of  results  more  akin  to  reason 
than  to  instinct.  The  succeeding  winter  the  acorn  re- 
mains intact,  but,  becoming  saturated,  is  predisposed  to 
decay,  when  it  is  attacked  by  maggots,  which  seem  to 
delight  in  this  special  food.  It  is  then  that  the  wood- 
pecker reaps  the  harvest  his  wisdom  has  provided,  at  a 
time  when,  the  ground  being  covered  with  snow,  he 
would  experience  a  difficulty  otherwise  in  obtaining  suit- 
able or  palatable  food. 


Have  any  of  my  hearers  ever  seen  a  live  frigate- 
bird  ?  It  is  said  that  this  bird  is  the  swiftest  flyer 
known.  Read  about  him,  my  friends,  and  tell  your 
Jack  how  he  obtained  this  nautical  name.  Give. 
too,  his  highest  record  of  speed  according  to  good 


CERT.4IN  boys  hereabout  have  asked  your  Jack 
about  a  proposed  bicycle  road, —  or,  rather,  path  — 
from  New  York  to  Connecticut,  for  which  they  have 
been  anxiously  waiting  ;  but  this  pulpit  could  give 
them  no  information  on  the  subject.  Practical 
bicyclers  generally  skim  by  so  rapidly  that  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  ask  questions  of  them  ;  and 
beginners  usually  are  too  much  occupied,  in  pick- 
ing themselves  up  and  getting  on  again,  to  take 
much  interest  in  very  long  roads  —  so  tidings  of 



this  new  project  liave  been  hard  to  obtain.  Here 
comes  a  letter  from  Troy,  however,  which  throws 
either  light  or  darkness  upon  it,  according  to  the 
way  one  takes  it. 

Troy,  X.  Y. 
Dear  J.\CK-i.\-THE- Pulpit  :  I  am  a  boy  and  a  bicycler, 
and  therefore  I  hailed  with  delight  a  paragraph  which  I 
saw  in  the  Portland  Transcript,  a  good  paper  which 
sometimes  is  sent  to  us  by  a  down-east  relative.  This 
is  it : 

"Mr.  A.  G.  Fisher,  of  New  Haven,  Conn.,  proposes 
to  build  a  cinder  path  from  New  York  to  New  Haven 
for  the  benefit  of  bicycle  riders.  It  is  to  be  three  feet 
in  width  and  laid  at  the  side  of  the  present  road ;  to  be 
built,  however,  only  where  the  existing  roads  are  not 
good.  The  ]>ath  will  be  about  seventy  miles  in  length, 
and  the  average  cost  of  building  is  estimated  at  $75  jier 
mile,  or  a  total  of  $5250.  A  little  over  ten  per  cent,  of 
the  amount  has  already  been  subscribed.  The  various 
bicycle  clubs  are  expected  to  assist  the  enterprise." 

Now,  I  'd  like  to  know  how  this  proposed  road  is  get- 
ting on,  and,  instead  of  bothering  Mr.  A.  G.  Fisher,  of 
New  Haven,  with  the  question,  I  think  I  '11  ask  the  wide- 
awake crowd  around  your  pulpit  if  they  can  tell  me  any- 
thing about  the  project.  Is  it  alive  or  not  ?  and  if  it  's 
alive,  how  is  it?    Your  Aoung  friend,       T.  G.  H . 


Who  among  iny  hearers  can  tell  the  origin  of 
the  words  TINKER  and  ALMANAC?  And  why  is 
an  inn-keeper  often  called  a  LANDLORD  ? 


De.\r  Jack  :  I  have  read  lately  that  the  oldest  rose- 
bush in  the  world,  of  which  there  is  authentic  record, 
grows  in  a  church-yard,  and  against  the  old  church  at 
Hildesheim,  Germany.  The  main  stem  is  thicker  than 
a  man's  body,  but  it  has  required  over  eight  hundred 
years  to  attain  this  remarkable  size. 

Have  any  of  your  "chicks  "  ever  seen  this  huge  rose- 
bush in  bloom  ? 

Yours  respectfully,  .\  Big  Boy. 


A  FRIEND,  to  whom  many  thanks  are  due,  has 
sent  you  all  the  way  from  Nebraska  a  photograph 
of  a  dozen  or  inore  of  the  finest  pumpkins  that 
ever  gladdened  human  hearts  on  Thanksgiving  day. 

There  is  noneedof  your  Jack  giving  you  any  agri- 
cultural rhetoric  on  this  occasion.  The  puinpkins 
speak  for  themselves.  One  of  them  (probably 
the  fine  specimen  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner) 
measured,  I  am  told,  exactly  eight  feet  in  circum- 
ference ;  that  is,  it  would  take  a  string  eight  feet 
long  to  go  around  it.  Well,  well !  Thousands  of 
you  might  have  been  supplied  with  pies,  this 
inonth,   from  this  one  Nebraska  field  alone  ! 

Before  turning  to  another  subject,  let  us  thank 
the  cheery-looking  Nebraskan,  in  the  corner,  for 
giving  us  an  opportunity  to  compare  the  relative 
sizes  of  vegetable  and  man. 


/-      •»      ... 

''   :  ^v:i|-^=r?\^ 

lilt.     I-IMi'KINS,        0  HUM     A     niOTOGK.vril     TAKIiN      IN     A     NKLIRASKA     I'lMl'KlN-FIEl.D.) 

■   A      i.kNM  as  I       J^t,\l»L.K 


Bv  Anna  H.  Bkanch. 

I  LiKK  to  sit  beside  a  wall 
Among  the  grasses  green. 
And  think,  if  over  I  should  peep, 
What  things  might  there  be  seen. 

Perhaps  I  'd  see  bold  Robin  Hood, 
With  arrows,  bow,  and  brand  ; 
He  'd  fix  his  outlawed  e)'es  on  me 
.And  shake  a  threatening  hand. 

Then,  in  some  terror,  I  decide 
That  it  can  not  be  he ; 

But  that  some  nymph  from  Fairyland 
Is  waiting  there  for  me. 

.■\nd  then  I  think  that  —  oh  !  perhaps — 
The  world  has  quite  turned  over. 
And  China  and  Japan  have  come 
This  side  the  sky's  blue  cover. 

At  that,  I  can  not  stand  it  more. 
But  over  have  to  look. 
And  see  —  the  dear  old  e very-day 
Careen  meadow,  and  the  brook  ! 


( A 'onsensf  V \'>se. ) 

Once  there  lived  a  little  gnome, 

Who  had  made  his  little  home 

Right  down  in  the  middle  of  the  earth,  earth,  earth. 

He  was  full  of  fun  and  frolic. 

But  his  wife  was  melancholic, 

And  he  never  could  divert  her  into  mirth,  mirth,  mirth. 

He  had  tried  her  with  a  monkey, 

And  a  parrot  and  a  donkey, 

And  a  pig  that  squealed  whene'er  he  pulled  its  tail,  tail,  tail. 

But  though  he  laughed  himself 

Into  fits,  the  jolly  elf. 

Still  his  wifey's  melancholy  did  not  fail,  fail,  fail. 

"  I  will  hie  me,"  said  the  gnome, 
"  From  my  worthy  earthy  home, 

I  will  go  among  the  dwellings  of  the  men,  men,  men. 

Soiiu't/ii/ii^  funny  there  must  be,  that  will  make  her  sa)-  '  He  !  he ! 

I  will  find  it,  and  will  bring  it  her  again,  'gain,  'gain." 




So   he    traveled    here 

and  there. 
And  he  saw  the  Bhnk- 

ing  Bear, 
And      the      Pattypol 

whose    eyes    are 

in    his    tail,   tail, 


He  saw  the  Chingo  Chee, 

And  a  lovely  sight  was  he, 

With  a  ringlet,  and  a  ribbon 

on  his  nose,  nose,  nose. 


And  the  C)ctopus  a-waltzing 
with  the  whale,  whale, 

And  the  Cantilunar  Dog, 
Who  was  throwing  cotton 

flannel    at    his   foes, 

foes,  foes. 


THE    LITTLE    GNOME.  89 

All  these  the  little  gnome 

Transported  to  his  home, 

And  set  them  down  before  his  weeping  wife,  wife,  wife. 

But  she  only  cried  and  cried, 

And  she  sobbywobbed  and  sighed, 

Till  she  really  was  in  danger  of  her  hfe,  life,  life. 

Then  the  gnome  was  in  despair. 
And  he  tore  his  purple  hair. 

And  he  sat  him  down  in  sorrow  on  a  stone,  stone,  stone. 
"  I,  too,"  he  said,  "  will  cry. 
Till  I  tumble  down  and  die, 
For  I  've  had  enough  of  laughing  all  alone,  'lone,  'lone." 

His  tears  they  flowed  away 

Like  a  rivulet  at  play. 

With  a  bubble,  gubble,  rubble,  o'er  the  ground,  ground,  ground. 

But  when  this  his  wifey  saw, 

She  loudly  cried,  "  Haw  !  haw  ! 

Here,  at  last,  is  something  funny  you  have  found,  found,  found." 

She  laughed,  "  Ho  !  ho  !  he  !  he  !  " 

And  she  chuckled  loud  with  glee. 

And  she  wiped  away  her  little  husband's  tears,  tears,  tears. 

And  since  then,  through  wind  and  weather. 

They  have  said  "  He  !  he  !  "  together. 

For  several  hundred  thousand  merry  years,  years,  years. 


By  Mary  V.  Worstell. 

A  RICH  man  once  said  to  me,  "  I  have  heard  books  ?     I   fancy  that  he  did.     But  the  busy 

people  say  that  if  they  had  enough  money  they  man   who  purchased  that  wonderful  bootjack 

could  easily  select  Christmas  gifts.      Now,  for  doubtless  had  given  no  thought  to  the  matter 

the  last  two  hours,  I  have  been  trying  to  find  of  his  Christmas  gifts  until  nearly  the  25th  of 

something  to  suit  my  son-in-law.    Finally,  in  de-  December,    that    consummate    flower    of    the 

spair,  I  have  bought  him  a  fifty-dollar  bootjack  whole  year,    and  then  he  must  needs  buy  one 

that  you  could  n't  hire  me  to  keep  in  the  house."  of  the  first  things  he  saw,  provided  only  that  it 

A  fifty-dollar  bootjack  !     What   a   confused  did  not  cost  too  much  or  too  little, 
jumble  my  mind  was  for  the  next  few  minutes.         With  the  bootjack  incident  still  in  my  mind. 

Bootjacks,  indeed !     I  was  thinking  of  a  book-  I  shall  suggest  various  gifts,  just  by  way  of  be- 

store  I  had  visited  that  morning  —  of  the  man}^  nevolently  preventing  my  fellow-creatures  from 

beautiful  books,  artistically  printed  and  richly  receiving  absurd  or  useless  presents.    Those  \\ho 

bound,  which  those  fifty  dollars   would   have  are  wealthy  can  usually  find  lovely  and  artistic 

purchased.     Did   not   the   son-in-law  care  for  gifts  at  Tiftany's  or  stores  of  similar  rank.     iMy 
Vol.  XVIL— 12. 




suggestions  are  for  those  lucky  individuals  with 
■whom  money  is  not  so  plentiful  as  to  make  the 
■wish  for  a  thing  and  its  possession  synonymous. 

The  most  puzzling  task  at  Christmas  is  to 
select  presents  for  fathers  and  brothers.  Two 
years  ago,  a  certain  young  woman  (this  by  way 
of  reminiscence)  failed  to  find  anything  she 
thought  suitable  for  her  brother.  But  after  much 
perplexity  a  coffee  cup  and  saucer,  daintil)- 
decorated,  was  selected,  and  it  was  gratefully 
used  at  about  three  hundred  and  si.xty  breakfasts 
during  the  following  year.  The  next  )  ear  a  cut- 
glass  salt-cellar  and  pepper-box  were  given.  Be- 
sides these  and  similar  articles,  one  might  try 
canvas  or  linen  slipper-cases,  made  to  hang 
against  the  wall,  inkstands  and  other  articles 
for  desks,  silver  match-boxes,  razors  (for  which 
the  traditional  penny  should  be  exacted),  shaving- 
glasses,  cases  of  shaving-paper,  or,  that  always 
welcome  friend,  a  silk  muffler.  A  case  for 
carrying  collars  and  cuffs  when  traveling,  is  a 
useful  present  for  many.  The  outside  may  be 
of  any  material  available,  and  the  lining  should 
be  of  silk ;  but  a  stiff  interlining  of  buckram 
should  be  inserted.  In  short,  make  it  like  a 
music-roll,  but  not  so  wide,  and  fasten  it  with  a 
fancy  leather  strap  and  buckle.  Decorate  the 
outside  with  some  pretty  device, —  the  initials 
or  monogram  of  the  prospective  owner. 

I  shall  make  no  further  suggestions  of  articles 
especially  suitable  for  the  sterner  sex,  but  among 
the  presents  which  will  do  equally  well  for  either 
father  or  mother,  brother  or  sister,  maj'  be 
mentioned  umbrellas;  umbrella-cases;  chairs  of 
more  or  less  elaborate  workmanship,  from  the 
pretty  wicker  or  rattan  chair  to  those  which  are 
profusely  carved  or  richly  upholstered ;  opera- 
glasses,  gloves,  handkerchiefs  and  handkerchief- 
cases,  gold  pencils,  fountain  pens,  card-cases, 
napkin-rings,  and  books. 

A  little  rule  of  mine  in  buying  books  may  not 
come  amiss.  It  is  this :  AVhen  a  person's  means 
will  permit  only  a  small  library,  never  buy  any 
book  that  will  not  bear  reading  more  than  once. 
Still,  most  of  what  is  called  "  current  literature" 
may  be  bought  for  a  low  price,  the  chances 
being  that  its  flimsy  binding  will  outwear  its 

This  is  what  Charles  Lamb  says  about  the 
binding  of  books :   "  To  be  strong-backed  and 

neat-bound  is  the  desideratum  of  a  volume. 
Magnificence  comes  after.  This,  when  it  can  be 
afibrded,  is  not  to  be  lavished  upon  all  kinds  of 
books  indiscriminately.  I  would  not  dress  a  set  of 
magazines,  for  instance,  in  full  suit.  The  dishabille 
or  half-binding  (with  Russia  backs  ever)  is  our 
costume.  A  Shakspere  or  a  Milton  (unless  the 
first  editions),  it  were  mere  foppery  to  trick  out 
in  gay  apparel.  The  possession  of  them  confers 
no  distinction.  The  exterior  of  them  (the  things 
themselves  being  so  common),  strange  to  say, 
raises  no  sweet  emotions,  no  tickling  sense  of 
property  in  the  owner.  Thomson's  '  Seasons,' 
again,  looks  best  (I  maintain  it)  a  little  torn  and 

In  regard  to  reading  good  books,  Ruskin  says  : 

"  Do  you  know,  if  you  read  this,  you  cannot 
read  that — that  what  you  lose  to-day  you  can- 
not gain  to-morrow  ?  Will  you  go  and  gossip 
with  your  housemaid,  or  your  stable-boy,  when 
you  may  talk  with  queens  and  kings ;  or  flatter 
yourself  that  it  is  with  any  worthy  consciousness 
of  your  own  claims  to  respect  that  you  jostle 
with  the  common  crowd  for  entree  here,  and 
audience  there,  when  all  the  while  tliis  eternal 
court  is  open  to  you,  with  its  society  wide  as 
the  world,  multitudinous  as  its  days,  the  chosen, 
and  the  mighty,  of  every  place  and  time  ? 
Into  that  you  may  enter  always;  in  that  you 
may  take  fellowship  and  rank  according  to 
your  wish ;  from  that,  once  entered  into  it,  you 
can  never  be  outcast  but  by  your  own  fault ;  by 
your  aristocracy  of  companionship  there,  your 
own  inherent  aristocracy  will  be  assuredly 
tested,  and  the  motives  \vith  which  you  strive 
to  take  high  place  in  the  society  of  the  living, 
measured,  as  to  all  the  truth  and  sincerity  that 
are  in  them,  by  the  place  you  desire  to  take  in 
this  company  of  the  dead. 

" '  The  place  you  desire,'  and  the  place  you 
Jit  yourself  for,  I  must  also  say;  because,  ob- 
serve, this  court  of  the  past  differs  from  all  Uving 
aristocracy  in  this: — it  is  open  to  labor  and 
to  merit,  but  to  notliing  else.  No  wealth  will 
bribe,  no  name  overawe,  no  artifice  deceive,  the 
guardian  of  those  Elysian  gates.  In  the  deep 
sense,  no  vile  or  vulgar  person  ever  enters 

A  small  bookcase  need  not  be  expensive  to 
be  pretty,  and  a  small  revolving  bookcase,  made 




especially  for  holding  books  of  reference,  is  a 
delight  to  a  reader. 

Many  of  the  large  publishing  houses  keep  on 
sale  pictures  of  authors.  Twenty-five  cents  will 
buy  the  portrait  of  almost  any  well-known  au- 
thor. These  are  usually  wood-engravings  and 
excellent  of  their  kind,  well  printed  on  good 
paper,  in  size  about  ten  by  twelve  inches.  For 
the  same  picture  on  India  paper  (which,  of 
course,  is  more  durable  and  admits  of  a  finer 
impression)  one  dollar  may  be  asked,  and  the 
extra  money  will  be  well  spent.  A  neatly  firamed 
portrait  of  the  favorite  author  of  a  friend  will 
make  a  charming  gift  at  but  small  cost. 

Other  pictures  —  photographs  of  famous  pic- 
tures, for  instance  —  may  be  bought  at  a  low 
figure  and  framed.  But  pictures  are  like  books : 
there  is  an  infinite  variety  to  choose  from,  and 
the  price  for  either  can  be  made  high  enough  to 
suit  the  most  lavish  giver. 

Many  make  it  a  practice  to  subscribe  to  some 
favorite  magazine  or  paper,  as  a  Christmas  gift ; 
and  those  who  wish  to  confer  an  ever  new 
pleasure  may  well  bear  this  in  mind.  With  so 
many  capital  publications,  devoted  to  all  imag- 
inable tastes  and  pursuits,  a  choice  will  not  be 
difficult.  Children,  especially,  enjoy  receiving 
their  own  papers  and  magazines,  and  a  present 
of  this  kind  can,  by  a  payment  far  from  large, 
be  guaranteed  to  last  one  year —  a  surety  which 
can  never  be  furnished  with  any  toy,  no  matter 
how  expensive  or  durable. 

Very  young  girls  have  a  weakness  for  ribbons, 
sashes,  perfumery,  bangles,  and  fancy  pins,  and 
one  can  do  worse  than  to  moderately  indulge 
these  innocent  vanities. 

Family  servants  should  share  the  Christmas 
joy ;  and  appropriate  gifts,  such  as  print  or  neat 
woolen  dresses,  aprons,  or  a  pocketbook  with 
perhaps  a  coin  or  bill  in  it,  will  never  come  amiss. 

The  mothers  —  the  housekeepers  —  are  the 
easiest  to  cater  for  at  this  season  of  puzzled 
shoppers.  There  are  hundreds  of  dainty  arti- 
cles which  the  true  home-maker  will  welcome. 
Anything  to  beautify  the  home  can  hardly  fail 

to  please;  —  silver,  china,  articles  of  cut-glass,  or 
choice  napery  for  the  table,  a  Japanese  umbrella- 
stand,  a  work-basket  prettily  fitted  up  and  with 
perhaps  a  silver  or  gold  thimble  in  its  own  little 
pocket,  a  linen  scarf  for  the  sideboard  embroid- 
ered or  finished  with  "  drawn  work,"  a  shop- 
ping-bag, or  embroidered  scarfs  of  the  pretty 
China  silks  now  so  much  used  in  decoration. 
Other  gifts  might  be  vinaigrettes,  silver  glove- 
buttoners,  crocheted  slippers,  dainty  aprons, 
ivory  brushes  and  combs,  stationery,  pocket- 
books,  card-cases  or  address-books.  In  pre- 
senting any  of  the  latter  gifts  it  will  show  an 
added  thoughtfulness  on  the  part  of  the  giver 
to  have  the  name,  or  at  least  the  initials,  of  the 
recipient  printed  in  gilt  letters  on  the  article,  if 
it  be  of  leather.  The  added  cost  for  this  work 
is  very  trifling.  In  the  same  way  the  value  of  a 
box  of  stationery  is  much  enhanced  if  the  giver 
has  had  the  address  of  the  recipient  stamped 
upon  the  upper  right-hand  comer  of  the  paper. 
A  little  rime  and  thoughtful  work  may  produce 
very  delightful  results.  A  lady  of  my  acquaint- 
ance was  greatly  pleased  w-ith  a  certain  beautiful 
story  which  appeared  in  a  well-known  weekly 
paper.  It  was  not  possible  to  obtain  the  story  in 
any  other  form,  so  her  niece  bought  two  copies 
of  the  paper  containing  it,  as  it  was  printed  on 
both  sides  of  the  page.  After  cutting  the  story 
out  neatly  in  columns  and  pasting  these  into  one 
long  strip,  the  whole  piece  was  measured  and 
then  carefully  pasted  in  even  double  columns 
upon  sheets  of  heavy  paper  of  a  size  which  left 
a  broad  margin.  Then  the  margins  were  deco- 
rated with  delicate  sprays  of  flowers  painted  in 
sepia,  and  the  name  of  the  story  in  fancy  letters 
appeared  on  the  thicker  sheet  of  paper  which 
served  as  a  cover.  Round  holes  were  made  with 
an  instrument  which  is  manufactured  for  that 
purpose,  and  all  the  sheets,  eleven  in  number, 
were  tied  together  with  a  ribbon.  On  the  last 
page  a  copy  of  a  famous  painting  of  the  Ma- 
donna, prominently  mentioned  in  the  story,  was 
mounted.  The  result  was  a  really  lovely  httle 
gift-book,  sure  to  please  her  who  received  it. 


Our  readers  will  be  interested  in  comparing  the  two  descriptions  of  rabbit-hunting  published  in  this 

number:   "  Coursing  with  Greyhounds  in  Southern  California"  and  a  "  Pueblo 

Rabbit-hunt."     Between  the  civilized  "coursing"  and  the  savage 

"  drive  "  the  contrast  is  certainly  striking. 


Dear  St.  Nicholas  : 

Washington,  D.  C. 

I  HAVE  the  honor,  this  morning,  to  be, 

One  of  a  committee,  that  numbers  but  three, 

To  ask  you  a  question  concerning  the  fate 

Of  one  who  wrote  for  your  pages  of  late. 

'T  is  "  Jack-in-the- Pulpit,"  whose  loss  we  bewail. 

The  parson  who  told  us  full  many  a  tale. 

Instructive  and  funny  his  sermons  to  all. 

Now  tell  your  "  Dear  Reader,"  has  Jack  had  a  fall  ?  he  misused  the  funds  that  others  have  earned? 

Has  he  taught  us  a  lesson  that  he  has  n't  learned  ? 

Has  he  jilted  the  "  School-raa'ani,"  that  lamb  of  his  fold. 

Or  doctrines  advanced  that  some  thought  too  bold  ? 

If  you  know  where  he  is,  you  had  best  make  it  known, 

Or  suspicion  will  rest  on  old  St.  Nick  alone. 

When  last  Jack  was  seen  with  your  authors  renowned, 

He  seemed  hale  and  hearty  —  in  efery  way  sound. 

Now  do  solve  the  mystery  that  hangs  over  Jack, 

And  if  it  is  possible  please  have  him  back. 

Vive  le  St.  Nicholas,  in  whom  I  delight. 

Your  .-irdent  admirer,         Ethel  P.  Wright. 

This  cheery  correspondent,  and  all  Jack's  other 
friends,  will  see  that  he  is  again  in  his  pulpit  this 
month.  Like  other  preachers,  he  must  have  a 
vacation  now  and  then. 

And,  by  the  way,  Jack-in-the-Pulpit  requests 
us  to  convey  his  thanks  to  Mollie  U.  F.,  Kag- 
roin,  J.  H.  Dam/l,  May  IVaring,  Dannie  C, 
Mildred  D.  G. ,  and  Pan/  Gage,  for  the  good  let- 
ters they  sent  him  in  reply  to  Aimee  Lequeu.x  D.'s 
question  given  in  the  May  St.  Nicholas.  The 
letters  were  cordially  enjoyed,  but  were  received 
too  late  to  be  acknowledged  with  the  other  letters 
on  the  banana  question. 

Perhaps  some  of  the  readers  of  the  St.  Nicholas  may 
be  surprised  to  know  that  the  King,  Queen  and  Prin- 
cesses go  about  the  town  just  like  other  people  —  some- 
times in  a  carriage,  or  on  horseback,  and  often  walk  about 
the  streets  unattended.  But  when  there  is  any  special 
ceremony,  there  is  a  gilt  coach,  with  grooms  in  blue 
and  silver  liveries,  and  magnificent  horses.  But  perhaps 
everyone  is  not  so  much  interested  in  royalty  as  I  am,  so 
I  will  talk  of  something  else.  There  are  a  great  many 
ruins  here,  the  most  beautiful  being  the  Acropolis.  But 
I  must  not  attempt  to  describe  them.  Besides  the  ruins, 
there  are  very  beautiful  houses  (really  palaces)  and  mag- 
nificent streets.  The  pavement  on  the  principal  streets 
must  be  about  thirty  feet  wide  on  each  side,  and  the  road 
still  wider.  I  must  say,  before  I  stop  writing,  that,  of  all 
the  stories  I  have  yet  read  in  the  St.  Nicholas,  "  Little 
Lord  Fauntleroy "  and  "Juan  and  Juanita"  are  ray 
favorites.  I  have  a  little  sister  who  enjoys  the  pictures 
\ery  much. 

Now,  good-bye,  dear  St.  Nicholas,  from  your  inter- 
ested reader,  Mabel  M . 

Athens,  Greece. 
Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
ever  seen  a  letter  from  Athens  in  your  "  Letter-box,"  so 
I  thought  that  some  of  your  readers  might  like  to  know 
something  about  it.  The  people  are  very  dark,  and  it  is 
rare  to  find  any  fair  ones.  I  was  only  nine  years  old 
when  I  left  .\merica,  and  now  I  am  fourteen.  Greek  is 
very  difficult,  and  a  person  not  knowing  the  language 
might  often  think  the  people  quarreling,  they  talk  so  very 
loud  and  use  so  many  gestures.  Greek  girls  do  not,  as 
a  rule,  go  to  school,  but  they  have  private  teachers  and 
governesses.  Almost  all  the  children  speak  several  lan- 
guages, and  you  often  find  a  little  child  five  or  six  years 
old  who  can  speak  Greek,  English,  German,  and  French. 

Bai.ti.more,  Md. 
Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  We  have  taken  your  magazine 
for  nearly  a  year,  and  are  very  fond  of  it.  We  visited 
Europe  about  a  year  ago,  and  stayed  there  for  six  months. 
We  were  led  to  take  your  magazine  by  hearing  such 
favorable  comments  passed  upon  it  while  we  were  in 
Athens,  Greece.  We  visited  various  places  of  interest, 
among  which  were  Geneva,  Paris,  London,  Liverpool, 
Rome,  and  numerous  other  cities.  While  in  Geneva  we 
had  quite  a  singular  adventure.  We  were  out  driving, 
one  sultry  afternoon,  when  our  carriage  was  slopped, 
and  two  fierce-looking  men  approached  us,  compelling 
us  to  give  up  all  our  valuables.  Of  course  we  were 
obliged  to  comply  with  their  wishes,  but  very  reluctantly. 
Hoping  to  see  this  letter  published  in  your  next  number, 
Your  admiring  readers.  May  and  Flora. 

Lily  Bay,  Me. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas:  I  saw  in  your  August  number 
an  article  about  "  Flower  Ladies."  I  have  often  played 
it,  only  rather  more  elaborately.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  know  my  way. 

I  used  to  take  a  bud  or  seed-vessel,  leaving  about  two 
inches  of  stalk.  A  daisy  bud  or  a  very  green  poppy- 
seed  is  the  best,  using  the  bud  or  seed-vessel  as  a  head, 
and  slipping  the  stalk  through  the  petal  of  a  morning- 
glory  flower.  W^e  did  not  always  use  morning-glory 
flowers,  but  sometimes  nasturtium  blossoms  with  enough 
of  the  little  tube  cut  off  to  allow  the  stalk  to  pass  through, 
so  making  a  girl  doll  with  a  full  skirt. 



A  still  gayer  dress  was  one  I  made  by  taking  the  petals 
of  a  poppy  and  fastening  them  aiound  the  waist  of  the 
doll  with  grass  or  thread,  and  then  putting  on  the  leaves 
of  a  different-colored  popjiy  arranged  as  a  cape. 

Hats  were  made  by  taking  the  blossom  of  a  sweet-pea 
and  opening  the  lower  petals  wide  enough  to  insert  the 
head,  and  running  a  pin  or  stiff  piece  of  grass  through 
from  the  calyx,  which  is  left  on,  into  the  head.  A  sim- 
pler way  of  making  hats  is  to  take  a  blossom  of  the  butter- 
and-eggs  (Antirrhinum)  and  open  the  mouth  wide  enough 
to  inclose  the  head.  We  used  to  call  them  "  riding-hats." 
Faces  can  be  made  by  pressing  the  point  of  a  pin  into 
the  seed.  I  have  never  seen  this  done  except  with  a 

Hoping  that  my  St.  Nicholas  girl  friends  who  are 
interested  in  the  "  Flower  Ladies "  will  improve  and 
enlarge  on  my  pattern-book,  I  remain,  sincerely  yours, 

Eleanor  M.  F . 

Canton,  O. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas:  Although  I  have  taken  you  for 
nearly  five  years,  I  have  never  written  to  you  before,  and 
I  hope  this  letter  will  have  the  honor  of  being  printed  in 
the  "  Letter-box,"  for  the  re.ason  that  it  is  from  a  "  Johns- 
town flood  sufferer,"  if  for  no  other. 

Our  family  was  (with  the  e.xception  of  myself,  I  being 
two  miles  from  town  visiting)  in  the  thickest  part  of  the 
flood.  They  were  on  the  roof  of  the  house  when  it  floated 
from  its  foundation  and  directly  opposite  the  school- 
house,  which  was  a  block  away  from  us  before  the  flood. 

They  then  climbed  over  houses,  debris,  etc.,  and  got 
in  the  school-house.  This  was  about  five  o'clock  in  the 
evening  of  that  disastrous  day.  They  did  not  get  out  until 
six  o'clock  the  next  evening.  During  all  that  time  they 
did  not  have  a  bite  to  eat.  I  had  my  St.  Nicholas  all 
bound,  but  the  books  went  with  our  house  in  the  flood.  I 
have  not  seen  but  one  copy  of  St.  Nicholas  since  May 
31,  1889,  and  do  not  expect  to  see  one  of  my  own  for  a 
great  while. 

Your  interested  «o«-reader,         Alice  L.  S . 

P.  S.  —  Not  one  of  my  relatives  was  lost  in  the  flood, 
but  many  friends  were.  We  are  going  back  to  Johns- 
town in  the  fall. 

Greenwood  Lake,  N.  Y. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  I  enjoy  having  my  Papa  read 
to  my  sisters  and  my  brothers  and  myself  the  stories  in 
St.  Nicholas. 

I  will  tell  you  a  funny  story.  At  our  house,  whenever 
we  are  naughty,  we  have  another  name. 

We  don't  belong  to  our  family  at  all,  but  to  the  Hop- 
scotch family.  My  big  sister  is  Peggerty,  the  next  one 
Betsy,  or  Elizabeth  Jane,  and  my  big  brother  is  Jede- 
diah,  and  my  little  brothers  Obediah  and  .4bimeleck,  and 
my  sister,  that  's  only  a  little  older  than  L  whose  letter 
you  printed  in  your  September  St.,  is  Malinda, 
and  Papa  and  Mamma,  if  they  were  ever  naughty,  would 
be  .-Khasuerius  and  Semarimus,  and  my  name  is  ^lelvina. 

If  we  are  naughty,  my  Papa  says,"  Peggerty,  Elizabeth 
Jane,  Jedediah,  Malind.a,  Melvina,  Obediah,  and  .^bime- 
leck,  go  right  to  your  rooms  and  stay  there  until  I  send 
for  you  !  " 

I  tell  you  we  do  not,  any  of  us,  like  to  be  called  a 
member  of  the  Hopscotch  f.rniily ! 

Nora  McD ,  seven  years  old. 

The  last  time  I  wrote  to  you,  I  was  in  Virginia.  I  in- 
tended to  write  and  tell  you  about  New  Orleans,  when 
I  lived  there.  The  trip  down  South  was  a  very  pleasant 
one  to  us.  We  went  down  in  the  latter  part  of  October, 
just  when  the  cotton  is  being  picked.  It  is  very  interest- 
ing to  see  the  negroes  picking  ;  they  hold  a  large  basket 
on  their  heads,  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  they 
pick  the  cotton.  When  one  hand  is  quite  full  they  reach 
up  and  put  the  contents  in  the  basket.  The  prettiest 
sight  that  I  saw  in  my  three-days'  journey  south,  was 
the  Florida  moss  which  hangs  from  the  trees ;  this  moss 
is  of  a  dull,  dusty  gray ;  when  picked  it  will  sometimes 
turn  black. 

I  have  stood  on  the  battle-ground  at  New  Orleans, 
and  have  also  been  on  top  of  Jackson  Monument.  This 
monument  is  built  of  white  stone,  and  is  not  complete; 
some  of  the  stones  on  top  are  loose  and  liable  to  fall 
at  any  moment.  When  in  the  South  I  used  to  amuse 
myself  by  watching  the  little  lizards  running  up  and 
down  the  trees.  They  are  very  peculiar ;  when  running 
up  the  bark  of  a  tree,  they  turn  dark,  but  as  soon  as 
they  touch  the  green  leaves  they  are  green. 

The  prettiest  cemetery  that  I  ever  saw  is  the  Chal- 
mette  National  Cemetery;  in  June  (the  month  of  roses) 
it  is  a  bower  of  flowers.  Flowers  of  every  kind  and 
description  grow  in  profusion.  Among  the  flowers  are 
banana-palms  and  orange  trees ;  the  latter,  when  in 
bloom,  scent  the  whole  cemetery. 

Just  before  you  get  to  the  cemetery  is  an  old,  old 
powder-house,  that  was  built  before  the  war  ;  it  is  so 
old  that  it  is  nearly  tumbling  over. 

Attached  to  Jackson  barracks  is  a  large  magnolia 
grove,  where  the  magnolias  blossom  and  fade.  They 
perfume  the  whole  barracks. 

I  have  taken  you  for  three  years  and  could  not  do 
without  you.  Every  month,  when  it  draws  near  the 
time  for  your  arrival,  the  mail  is  carefully  watched. 

I  was  born  in  the  West,  but  I  love  the  South.  This 
is  the  first  time  I  have  been  North.  I  remain,  your 
devoted  reader  and  admirer,  M.  T.  S. 

New  York  City. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  I  want  to  tell  you  about  a 
"  Martha  Washington  Fancy  Dress  Party "  which  I 
attended  on  the  Centennial  Day. 

It  was  given  by  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  wore  a  gown 
my  great-grandmother  wore  on  the  day  of  Washington's 
Inauguration.  It  was  made  of  a  dark  red,  of  an  ordinary 
material,  and  a  part  of  it  was  lined  with  bed-ticking. 
The  boys  took  dift'erent  characters  in  American  history, 
as  the  girls  did,  and  looked  very  old-fashioned  in  their 
W'hile  wigs,  smallclothes,  shoe-buckles,  and  military  coats. 

We  danced  the  minuet  and  other  old  dances,  and  the 
ice-cream  was  served  up  in  two  different  forms, —  one 
the  head  of  Martha,  and  the  other  of  George  Washington. 

I  enjoy  your  magazine  so  very  much,  and  can  hardly 
wait  for  it  to  come  every  month.  Your  loving  friend 
and  admirer,  Aida  St.  Clair  D . 

Fort  Wadsworth,  Staten  Island,  N.  Y. 
Dear  St.  Nicholas:    I   promised  to  write  to  you 
some  time  ago,  but  have  never  done  so.     I  am  an  army 
girl,  and  am  constantly  moving  about.     I  love  to  travel. 

We  acknowledge,  with  thanks,  the  receipt  of  pleasant 
letters  from  the  young  friends  whose  names  follow  : 
Lilian  M.,  E.  P.,  Eleanor  M.,  Alice  F.  Mitchell,  Joseph- 
ine Sherwood,  S.  Howard  .Armstrong,  M.  C.  S.,  Hen- 
riette  de  R.,  Juha  Babcock,  Carrie  and  Fannie  Bennet, 
Hazel  M.  Muncey,  Kitlie  K.  Nyce,  Reba  I.  and  Fannie, 
James  H.,  Maria  D.  Malone,  Millie  K.  and  Rose  L., 
E.  Janney,  Elizabeth  D.,  Kate  Guthrie,  Lisa  D.  Blood- 
good,  Margaret  S.,  Cora  M.  S.,  Ortie  C.  Dake,  Martha 
Frederick,  Ethel  P.  Wright,  Kate  Krutz,  Elsie  R.,Cliarle5 
T.  IL,"  Lizzie,"  Martha  T.  Mann,  Sara  M.  Scribner, 
Lilian,  Mabel,  Maude,  and  Cecile,  Violet  C,  Ruth  Owen 


To  St.,  the  Agassiz  Association  (which  was 
begun  in  this  magazine)  owes  a  new  debt  of  gratitude. 
Within  two  months  after  our  annual  report  appeared  in 
St.  Nicholas  last  November,  responsive  letters  were 
received  from  more  than  three  hundred  persons,  and 
more  than  one  hundred  new  branch  societies,  or  Chap- 
ters, were  organized.  I  wish  the  number  might  be 
doubled  now ! 

Among  the  most  interesting  of  our  new  Chapters  are 
two  which  have  taken  root  —  where  do  you  think?  —  in 
Russia !  One  of  them  is  at  Shargovod,  in  Podolsk,  the 
other  at  Savinstzy,  in  Poltava,  and  if  you  will  take  the 
trouble  to  glance  at  your  atlas  you  will  see  that  these  are 
not  border  towns,  but  far  interior. 

Two  societies  have  been  established  in  England 
(Burton  and  Wolverhampton),  and  one  in  Nova  Scotia. 

The  readers  of  St.  Nichol.-vs  are  probably  aware  that 
we  have  divided  all  the  branches  of  the  Association  into 
ten  groups,  called  "centuries,"  for  convenience  in  report- 
ing. Reports  are  expected  from  the  Chapters  of  the  first 
century  in  January  of  each  year;  from  the  second  century 
in  February,  and  so  on,  omitting  the  months  of  August 
and  September.  Perhaps  I  can  give  no  better  impres- 
sion of  the  progress  of  our  work  than  by  taking  a  short 
glance  at  the  letters  which  came  in  for  the  month  July. 
They  are  certainly  very  encouraging  and  gratifying. 

Iowa  Chapters  are  always  "up  to  the  mark."  Here  is  Clarks- 
vilie,  612,  started  only  last  March,  that  has  already  more  than 
doubled  its  membership,  has  meetings  every  Saturday,  holds  written 
examinations  once  a  month  in  botany,  and  adds  to  the  usual  pro- 
gramme of  its  meetings,  music,  readings,  and  recitations.  Miss 
Bertha  Penrose  is  the  president,  and  Miss  Grace  Cameron  the 

We  turn  the  telescope  to  Louisiana.  Within  half  a  year  the  Henry 
H.  Straight  Memorial  Cliaptcr,  New  Orleans,  C,  No.  614,  has  in- 
creased its  membership  from  eight  to  twenty-four.  Three  hundred 
per  cent,  is  very  cood!  Three  of  these  members  are  adult,  and  they 
direct  the  work  of  the  children,  each  one  being  encouraged  to  follow 
his  special  inclination.  Among  other  things  talked  over  and  studied 
have  been  the  crayfish,  dragon-fly,  various  moths  and  butterflies, 
and  sea-fish.  Common  trees  have  also  been  discussed,  and  speci- 
mens of  the  wood,  blossom,  flower,  and  fruit  mounted  on  cardboard. 
One  meeting  was  given  up  entirely  to  the  chicken.  Its  senses, 
"clothes."  bones  (in  a  mounted  skeleton),  history  and  ori^n,  breeds 
and  care,  eggs  and  incubators,  were  some  of  the  topics,  vaned  by  two 
humorous  recitations.  After  all  this  the  societj-  actually  partook  of  a 
chicken-pie  (which  is  certainly  a  practical  illustration  of  "applied 
science "' !)  and  the  meeting  adjourned  after  each  person  present  had 
while  blindfolded  drawn  a  picture  of  a  chicken.  Each  one  paid  five 
cents  for  the  privilege  of  drawing,  and  the  one  who  made  the  best 
picture  received  the  whole  collection  of  drawings  as  a  "chicken 
album."  So  they  had  much  fun  and  made  some  money.  Miss 
Eliza  \.  Cheyney,  the  earnest  secretary,  adds,  "  We  are  verj'  glad  in- 
deed to  belong  to  the  Agassiz  Association.  Any  one  who  doubts 
the  value  of  nature  studies  for  children  should  watch,  as  I  have  for  six 
months,  its  awakening  and  quickening  power." 

Before  passing  to  the  next  Chapter,  we  must  add  parenthetically 
that  Miss  Cheyney  has  just  organized  a  strong  Chapter  of  more  than 
twenty  members  in  Hampton  Institute,  General  Armstrong's  In- 
dian School. 

It  is  surprising  how  Chapters  in  the  largest  cities  thrive  equally 
with  those  which  are  supposed  to  be  in  nature's  more  favored  haunt, 
the  country.  Chapter  630,  A'ctv  York  City,  Q,  retains  its  full  mem- 
bership, and  has  been  steadily  adding  to  its  collections. 

And  now  we  must  take  a  very  long  step. —  to  Redlattds,  Cali- 
fornia. Prince  Krapotkine,  the  distinguished  Russian,  calls  frequent 
attention  to  the  Agassiz  Association,  in  his  speeches  on  "What 
Geography  Ought  to  Be  "  ;  and  shows  that,  by  such  a  system  of  cor- 
respondence and  exchange  as  we  have,  we  get  more  true  knowledge 
of  distant  lands  than  is  possible  in  any  other  way.  The  truth  of  this 
remark  is  illustrated  by  our  regular  reports  every  month. 

In  Redlands,  Cal.,  then,  C//(z/ii*r63Q  began  its  existence  at  the  sug- 
gestion and  under  the  guidance  of  Professor  J.  G.  Scott,  so  long  the 
distinguished  head  of  the  Westfield,  Mass.,  Normal  School.  Pro- 
fessor Scott  has  recently  died,  but,  wherever  he  has  been,  there  will 
remain  inspiring  memories  of  his  earnest  life.  Says  the  secretary  of 
Chapter  639,  "  Professor  Scott  spent  most  of  the  winter  with  us,  and 

no  one  could  be  with  him  without  becoming  interested  in  natural  his- 
tory. We  were  constantly  inspired."  She  adds,  *'  We  were  also  fort- 
unate in  having  another  Massachusetts  teacher  with  us  last  winter, 
Professor  T.  E.  N.  Eaton,  of  Worcester.  He  conducted  a  boumy 
class  attended  by  some  fifty  members."  The  secretarj-  of  this  Chap- 
ter, at  the  end  of  her  very  interesting  report,  requests  that  it  be  not 
published.  We  did  not  notice  the  request  until  the  foregoing  extract 
was  written,  and  while  we  do  not  publish  the  report,  we  are  unwill- 
ing to  suppress  the  merited  tributes  to  Professors  Scott  and  Eaton. 

One  of  our  most  active  Chapters  is  652,  East  Orange,  N.  J..  C, 
under  the  efficient  management  of  Mary  D.  Hussey,  M.  D.  Just 
entering  on  its  third  year  with  five  new  members,  it  reports  ihe 
interest  greater  than  ever.  It  is  so  large  that  its  work  is  done  in 
secrions,  of  which  there  are  four.  The  geological  section  has  finished 
the  first  grade  of  Professor  Guttenberg's  Agassiz  Association  coime 
and  has  begun  a  study  of  local  minerals.  1  he  botanical  section  has 
been  occupied  with  excursions  and  work  upon  the  local  flora,  and 
on  Arbor  Day  interested  the  children  of  a  public  school  in  ttee- 
planting.  Fifty  small  trees,  which  had  been  raised  from  seedlings, 
were  presented  to  the  children  by  the  Chapter,  and  the  children 
planted  them  at  their  own  homes  with  their  own  hands.  The  ento- 
mological section  reported  on  wasps,  honey-bees,  bumble-bees,  and 
silk-worms,  presenting  specimens  of  each.  It  was  all  original  work. 
During  the  remainder  of  the  season  the  ornithological  section  look 
charge  of  the  meetings,  and  the  following  birds  were  studied  from 
specimens  lent  from  a  private  collection:  English  sparrows,  chip- 
ping, song,  and  tree  sparrows,  snow-birds,  hawks,  owls,  blackbirds, 
orii'les,  robins,  wrens,  and  fly-catchers.  Members  of  this  Chapter 
attended  each  meeting  of  the  Agassiz  Hill  and  Dale  Club,  and  the 
New  Jersey  State  Assembly  of  the  Agassiz  Association.  Agassiz's 
birthday.  May  28,  was  celebrated  in  a  grove  by  reading  sketches 
of  his  life  and  scientific  work,  and  Lowell's  poem,  followed  by 
refreshments  and  an  exhibition  of  specimens.  A  most  encouraging 
record  of  a  year's  work. 

Mr.  H.  B.  Hastings  reports  that  Ch3.pter  C6^.  of  Chelsea,  J^Iass.f 
has  a  microscope  fund  of  thirty-six  dollars  deposited  in  bank. 

We  must  give  an  extract  from  the  excellent  report  of  Chapter  694, 
of  PlainfieQ,  N.  /.,  C.  The  three  secretaries,  Mary  E.  Tracy, 
Margaret  C  Tracy,  and  Lilian  Erskine,  write,  in  part,  as  follow  s : 

"  Our  Chapter  has  eleven  active  and  five  honorary  members.  This 
year  botanical  and  geological  sections  have  been  formed  in  addition 
to  the  one  in  entomology.  We  have  held  thirty-nine  meetings  besides 
making  ten  excursions  into  the  country,  have  sent  a  delegate  to  both 
sessions  of  the  New  Jersey  Assembly,  and  at  least  one  member  has 
attended  three  meetings  of  the  Hill  and  Dale  Club. 

"  The  botanical  section  of  our  chapter  was  organized  in  the  fall  and 
consists  of  eight  active  members.  We  have  held  nine  regular  meet- 
ings. During  the  first  part  of  the  year  we  studied  ferns.  In  the 
winter  months  we  took  up  the  lives  of  Linnarus.  the  Jussieu  family, 
and  other  well-known  botanists  of  that  time.  Our  work  this  spring 
has  been  mostly  in  connection  with  the  study  of  botany  in  school. 
We  have  analyzed  one  hundred  and  five  plants,  fifty  plants  having 
been  mounted  by  each  member." 

We  bring  this  hasty  review  of  the  "  Seventh  Century  "  to  a  close 
by  quoting  part  of  an  encouraging  report  from  Mt.  Pleasant,  Iowa  : 
"  The  number  of  meetings  held  during  the  year  is  forty-five.  We 
have  made  quite  a  number  of  excursions  and  some  very  interesting 
discoveries.  One  of  our  members,  a  gendeman  from  Colorado  at- 
tending the  Universit>',  brought  us  some  beautiful  specimens  of  gold 
and  silver  ore." 

A  noticeable  feature  of  the  year's  work  has  been  the 
rapid  extension  of  the  Association  among  the  higher 
institutions  of  learning.  We  have  Chapters  in  connec- 
tion with  Johns  Hopkins  University,  Columbia  College, 
the  College  of  the  City  of  New  York,  Rutgers,  Wellesley, 
Wittenburg,  Akron,  Olivet,  and  others,  to  say  nothing  of 
numerous  Chapters  in  normal  schools. 

At  the  same  time,  there  are  just  as  many  Chapers  of  the 
little  ones  as  ever,  and  many  "  family  Chapters,"  where 
old  and  young  study  and  work  together.  Once  more,  it 
gives  me  great  pleasure  to  invite  all,  of  whatever  age,  to 
unite  with  us,  either  by  organizing  local  Chapters,  or  as 
individual  members.  To  any  one  who  will  send  liis 
address  will  be  sent  a  circular,  containing  concise  direc- 
tions for  joining  the  Association  —  there  is  no  charge  for 
the  enrollment  of  Chapters  —  and  with  the  circular  will 
be  sent  a  wood -en  graving  of  Professor  Agassiz. 

Address.,  President  Agassiz  Association, 

Pittsfield,  Mass. 



Illustrated  Puzzle.  Sir  Christopher  Wren.  i.  Spike. 

2.  .\corn.     3.   Chair.     4.    Sieve.     5.  Otter.     6.    Ships. 
7.   Mower.     8.   Rower.     9.  Negro. 

.\cROSTic  Riddle,    i.  Lark.     2.  Army.     3.  Riches. 
4.    Kite. 

Numerical  Enigma. 

The  sere  leaf,  flitting  on  the  blast ; 

The  hips  and  haws  in  every  hedge, 
Bespe.ik  October  's  come  !     At  bast 
We  stand  on  Winter's  crumbling  edge. 
A.  Hollow  Square.     From  i  to  2,  spatter;  3  to  4, 
plea ;   5  to  6,  alcoran  ;   7  to  S,  tong ;  9  to  10,  ternate ; 
II  to  12,  eats  ;   13  to  14,  rangest. 
Co.NCEALED  HALF  SQUARE.    I.  Diamond.    2.  Imbibe. 

3.  Abate.     4.   Mite.     5.  Obe.     6.  Ne.     7.  D. 
Connected  Word-squares.   Upper  square  :.i.  Plan. 



Hare.     3.  Aril. 


Lower  square :   i.  Than. 
From  I  to  3,  pintail. 

Diamond,     i.  P.    2.  Lea.    3.  Worms.    4.  Lovable. 

5.  Peragrate.     6.   Ambreic.     7.   Slain.     8.  Etc.     9.   E. 
Prlmal  Acrostic.    Harvest  Home.     Cross-words  : 

1.  Hydra.    2.  Arion.     3.  Remus.    4.  Vesta.     5.  Epeus. 

6.  Siren.     7.  Titan.     8.  Hylas.     9.  Orion.      10.  Medea. 
II.   Erato. 

Buried    Cities.     Initials,    Cleveland,     i.    Canion. 

2.  Lille.     3.   Exeter.     4.  Venice.     5.    Ems.     6.   Lima. 

7.  Amiens.     8.  Nice.     9.   Damascus. 

Pi.  ALICE   CARY   IN    "AlUumu." 

Shorter  and  shorter  now  the  twilight  clips 

The  days,  as  through  the  sunset  gate  they  crowd, 
And  Summer  from  her  golden  collar  slips 

And  strays  through  stubble-fields,  and  moans  aluud, 
Save  when  by  fits  the  warmer  air  deceives. 

And,  stealing  hopeful  to  some  sheltered  bower, 
She  lies  on  pillows  of  the  faded  leaves. 

And  tries  the  old  tunes  over  for  an  hour. 

To  OUR  Puzzlers  :  Answers,  to  be  acknowledged  in  the  magazine,  must  be  received  not  later  than  the  15th 
of  each  month,  and  should  be  addressed  to  St.  Nicholas  "  Riddle-box,"  care  of  The  Century  Co.,  33  East 
Seventeenth  St.,  New  York  City. 

Answers  to  all  the  Puzzles  in  the  August  Number  were  received,  before  August  15th,  from  Louise 
Ingham  .\dams — Josephine  Sherwood  —  Paul  Reese  —  Maxieand  Jackspar  —  Maude  E.  Palmer  —  Clara B.  Orwig — 
Pearl  F.  Stevens — J.  B.  Swann  —  Ida  C.  Thallon  —  Blanche  and  Fred  —  Mamma  and  Jamie- — "The  \Vise 
Five" — Mary  L.  Gerrish  —  Odie  Oliphant. 

Answers  to  Puzzles  in  the  August  Number  were  received,  before  .August  15th,  from  Marion  Hughes,  i  — 
"The  Family,"  i  — Gertrude  and  Cora  McCabe,  i  — Pearl  B.,  i  —  Ida  A.,  i  —  Monica,  2 —  Donald  C.  Barnes,  i  — 
Mabel,  Alice,  and  Savage,  I — Emmons  L.  Peck,  I — Bebbie  and  Matilda,  2  —  A.  E.  H.  Meyer,  2  —  L.  R. 
M.,  I  —  Pauline  M.  H.,  Elsie  E.,  and  Catherine  E.  H.,  I — "May  and  '79,"  9  —  Annie  Louise  Clay,  i  —  Clara 
and  Emma,  i  —  Wm.  N.  Seaver,  5  —  May  and  Lil,  I  —  Lester  and  Gertrude,  i — "  Bungalowites,"  2 — Mary  E. 
Colston,  3  —  F.  P.  Whitmore,  I  —  L.  L.  W.  and  Two  Cousins,  I  —  M.  H.  Perrin,  I  —  Lisa  D.  Bloodgood,  2  — 
H.  M.  C,  4  — Efiie  K.  Talboys,  6— A.  P.  C,  S.  W.,  E.  M.  M.  and  A.  W.  Ashhurst,  5  — Bella  Myers,  I  — G. 
H.  Purdy,  2  —  Margaret  Alice,  i — Ida  and  Mamma,  2  —  May  Martin,  i  —  Margy  P.  and  Emilie  D.,  4 — "Karl 
the  Great,"  9  —  John  W.  Frothingham,  Jr. ,  2  —  "  Kendrick  Family,"  I  —  Percy  V.  Ranee,  I  —  Skipper,  2  —  Helen 
D.,  9  —  "Bears,"  2 — "Jo  and  I,"  10  —  Nellie  L.  Howes,  8  —  joslyn  Z.  and  Julian  C.  Smith,  6  —  "A  Family 
Affair,"  9—  Kate  Guthrie,  5  —  Nora  Maynard,  4  —  Fanny  H.,  8  —  Adrienne  Offley  Forrester,  5 — J.  M.  Wright, 
1  —  Pussy  and  Kitty,  2  —  "  Frizzlevvig,"  4 — E.  F.  M.,  3  —  Charles  Beaufort,  i  —  B.  F.  R.,  7  —  Dora,  i. 


Across  :  i.  The  government  of  the  Turkish  empire. 
2.  Injuries.    3.  Pastimes.    4.  Fairies.    5.  Pur|)ort. 

Downward:  i.  In  rope.  2.  An  exclamation.  3.  A 
fragment.  4.  A  snare.  5.  An  ant.  6.  Withered.  7.  In- 
iquity.   8.  In  like  manner.    9.  In  rope. 


Sit  eth  emit 
Hewn  eht  miche 
Fo  eht  senasos  horlac  bnda  si  ginring  tou. 

Kysom  stribgnesh  slifl  eht  ari, 

Rof  eht  glith  swind  weeryhever 
Scneers  Iful  fo  wolfrey  bresem  wings  baton. 

Three  si  stenswese  hatt  sopperess, 

.Sa  a  retden  riptang  seslebs  ; 

Threes  a  fontsced  wogi  fo  yabteu, 

Sa  hewn  Leov  si  rethawing  Duyt; 

Theer  rea  delisome  taht  mese 
Gawvine  stap  dan  trufeu  toni  neo  rafi  ramed. 


All  of  the  words  described  contain  the  same  number 
of  letters.     When  these  have  been  rightly  guessed  and 

placed  one  below  the  other,  in  the  order  here  given,  the 
primals  will  spell  degrades  ;  the  row  next  to  them  will 
spell  to  superintend;  the  finals  will  spell  the  side  oppo- 
site to  the  weather  side ;  and  tire  row  next  to  them  will 
spell  charges. 

Cross-words:  i.  Pertaining  to  the  back.  2.  Tomani- 
fest.  3.  To  threaten.  4.  A  name  anciently  given  to  the 
underworld.  5.  A  city  in  Italy,  near  Perugia.  6.  Wanted. 
7.   Having  the  surface  set  with  bristles.  F.  s.  F. 


I.  Gives  medicine  to.  2.  The  weight  of  twelve  grains. 
3.  Substantial.  4.  A  feminine  name.  5.  A  covered 
vehicle  for  carrying  a  single  person. 


Myyfrj-/  is  the  most  of  the  whole  ; 

Indeed,  than  the  u<holf  it  's  no  less. 
My  second^  no  matter  how  large, 

Can  never  be  all,  vou  'II  confess. 
By  adding  a  few  to  the  whole 

\  compound  is  made  that  is  healthy; 
Indeed,  your  food  should  be  this. 

Whether  you  're  poor  or  you  're  wealthy. 





I   AM  composed  of  forty-eigl.t  letters,  and  form  two 

teen'^^i^es.^  My  1.-27-40-.7-4  is  a  story.  My  ,5-^1- 
4S  ,9  is  an  excuse.  My  -23-3S-29-9-20-44  >.  ^^'^ 
national  flower  of  a  certain  country  M/ •4-25-5-46 
-o  is  a  kind  of  grain  extensively  cultivated.  M>  35  4' 
fs  a  preposition.^My  2-.  5-26-33-24-16  is  a  young  cow 
My  6-43-8-37  are  small,  globular  masses  of  lead.  My 
3-47-22-31-34-10-28-12-39  IS  enslaves.  F.  A.  %v. 



to  the  lower  right-hand  corner,  will  spell  the  name  of  the 
English  poet  from  whose  great  work  the  following  quo- 
tations are  taken :  r.,     ,).»«»»»  rm-th 
I.  "  Then  comes  the  father  of  the  *  *  »  lo'th. 

Wrapt  in  black  glooms." 
2    „»»»«*»«  in  his  palace  of  cerulean  ice,^^ 
Here  Winter  holds  his  unrejoicing^court^." 
1    "  Along  the  woods,  along  the  •  »  *  •  tens, 

Sichs  the  sad  genius  of  the  coming  storm. 
^  The  lively  »'•*•**  drinks  thy  purest  rays, 
Collected  light,  compact." 
'  He  saw  her  charming,  but  he  saw  not  half 
The  charms  her  downcast  ••  ^     ^  ^  ^-^^r^]'^- 
'  How  dead  the  vegetable  hes  • 

:.  And  see  where  surly  Winter  passes  off,  ^  ,, 

Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his*  ^'asts. 






FacH  of  the  six  small  pictures  m.ay  be  described  by  a 
word  of  seven  letters.  When  these  words  are  rightly 
euessed  and  placed  one  below  the  other,  in  the  order 
here  given,  the  third  perpendicular  row  will  spell  the 
surname  of  an  American  poet  who  was  born  in  Novem- 
ber, 1797. 


From  night  until  morning,  from  morning  till  night, 

Mv  dress  v.iries  not,  't  is  the  purest  of  white ; 

But  how  shall  I  add  what  must  injure  my  song,— 

That  I  'm  plump  as  a  dumpling,  not  round  but  oblong. 

Moreover,  my  station  I  take  on  the 

Of  a  creature  large,  strong,  and  a  true  quadruped; 

But  so  gentle  and  quiet  that  children  may  dare 

To  mount  on  his  back  and  sit  fearlessly  there. 

I  said  that  my  form  was  not  sylph-hke  nor  slender, 

\o  matter  for  that,  since  my  feeUngs  are  lender; 

But  a  caution  I  have  for  the  young  and  the  gay, 

Shun  my  company  ever,  by  break  of  the  day. 

Or  the  roses  of  health  that  now  bloom  on  your  face 

Will  ere  long  to  the  hue  of  the  lily  give  place. 

\nd  now  if  there  's  one  who  my  name  has  not  guessed, 

I  'U  venture  't  is  that  one  who  loves  me  the  best. 


Whfx  the  words  represented  by  stars  in  the  following 
sentences  have  been  rightly  guessed  and  placed  one  below 
the  other,  the  diagonals,  from  the  upper  left-hand  corner 

EXAMPLE  :   Separate  a  rural  worker,  and  make  a  vege- 
nble  and  an  insect.     Answer,  peas-ant. 

I  Separate  a  kind  of  pie  or  tart,  and  make  to  revolve 
and  above.  2.  Separate  a  mercenary,  and  make  wages  and 
a  kind  of  fish.  3^  Separate  a  preservative  against  injury, 
and  m-d'e  a  preposition  meaning  "  against,"  and  to  love 
Tsepiite  a  nocturnal  bird,  and  make  darkness  and  a 
tirtr'e^embling  a  falcon.  5-  Separate  a  piece  of  timber 
in  a  ship,  and  make  navigates  and  onward.  6.  Separate 
an  assistant  to  a  churchwarden,  and  make  margins  and  a 
human  being.  7-  Separate  an  unexpected  piece  of  good 
fortune,  and  make  idols  and  conclusion.  ^-  S^^P^^'" 
write  between,  and  make  to  bury  and  a  w.iter  9-^ep 
arate  pertaining  to  the  evemng,  and  make  the  evening 
:tar  a^d  part  o^f  a  fork..  .0.  Separate  to  t-ea^en  a,^ 
make  a  mischievous  sprite  and  the  close.  II.  Separate 
Remarkable,  and  make  a  word  that  expresses  denial  and 
proficient.     12.  Separate  to  please,  and  make  happy  and 

'^  When  the  above  words  are  rightly  guessed  and  placed 
one  below  the  other,  the  initials  of  the  first  row  of  words 
™11  speU  a  day  of  rejoicing,  and  the  initials  of  the  second 
row,  Tplace  many  people  visit  in  ^j;vember.^^^_^^^^^_ 


MY  primals  form  a  surname  of  Juno  at  Rome,  and  my 

'"cKo'^sToKOsfo^equal  length):  i.  .A  large  artery. in 
the  neck.  2.  An  Italian  poet.  3.  A  web-footed  marine 
lird  4  Reported.  5-  Capacity.  6.  .\  Imtel  over  a 
door  7.  To  fall  against.  8.  A  kind  of  cloth,  originally 
brought  from  ChinI  9.  A  musical  term  meaning  rather 


By  taking  one  word  from  each  of  tlie  follow-ing  prov- 
erbs' a  quofation  from  AMc6et/>,  suitable  to  the  season, 

mav  be  found :  , ,         j    a-    . 

1  Bitter  pills  may  have  blessed  effects. 

2  \  "ood  key  is  necessary  to  enter  mto  Paradise. 

I  Some  have  more  trouble  in  the  digestion  of  meat 
than  in  getting  the  meat  itself. 

4    Better  wait  on  the  cook  than  the  doctor. 

1   Praise  the  sea  but  keep  on  land.  .  -,     „  j  , 

6.  Temperance,  employment,  a  cheerful  spirit,  and  a 
good  appetite  are  the  great  preservers  of  health. 

7  Little  and  often  fills  the  purse. 

8  Sickness  is  felt,  but  health  not  at  all. 
9.   Lookers-on  see  more  than  PJayers. 

1  Hear  both  sides  before  you  deeide^on^yo^u^r^verdict. 


(engraved   for    ST. 


AT    THF     AGE    OF     ELEVEN. 
NICHOLAS,     FROM     A    BUST    BY    J.     DEVILE,     MADE    JUNE     1,     1822.) 


Vol.  XVII. 

DECEMBER,    1889. 

No.  2. 


By  Anne  Thackeray  Ritchie. 


There  is  a  picture  we  used  to  look  at  as  chil- 
dren in  the  nursery  at  home,  and  which  my  own 
children  look  at  now,  as  it  hangs  upon  the  wall. 
It  is  a  water-color  sketch,  delicately  penciled  and 
tinted,  done  in  India  some  three-quarters  of  a 
century  ago  by  Chinnery,  a  well-known  artist  of 
those  days,  who  went  to  Calcutta  and  depicted 
the  people  there  with  charming  skill. 

This  picture  represents  a  family  group, — father, 
mother,  infant  child, —  a  subject  which  has  been 
popular  with  painters  ever  since  they  first  began 
their  craft.  Long  before  Raphael's  wondrous 
art  was  known,  this  particular  composition  was 
a  favorite  with  artists  and  spectators,  as  I  think  it 
will  ever  be,  from  generation  to  generation,  while 
mothers  continue  to  clasp  their  little  ones  in 
their  arms.  This  special  group  of  Thackerays  is 
almost  the  only  glimpse  we  have  of  my  father's 
earliest  childhood,  but  it  gives  a  vivid  passing 
impression  of  his  first  home,  which  lasted  for  so 
short  a  time.  My  long,  lean,  young  grandfather 
sits  at  such  ease  as  people  allowed  themselves 
in  those  classic  days,  propped  in  a  stiff  chair,  in 
tight  white  ducks  and  pumps,  and  with  a  kind, 
grave  face.  He  was  Mr.  Richmond  Thackeray, 
of  the  Bengal  Civil  Service,  the  then  revenue 


by  The  Century  Co. 

collector  of  the  districts  called  "  the  twenty-four 
Perganas."  My  grandmother,  a  beautiful  young 
woman  of  some  two  and  twenty  summers,  stands, 
draped  in  white,  with  a  certain  nymph-like  aspect, 
and  beside  her,  perched  upon  half  a  dozen  big 
piled  books,  with  his  arms  round  his  mother's  neck, 
is  her  Httle  son,  William  Makepeace  Thackeray, 
a  round-eyed  boy  of  three  years  old,  dressed  in  a 
white  muslin  frock.  He  has  curly,  dark  hair,  an 
innocent  face,  and  a  very  sweet  look  and  smile. 
This  look  was  almost  the  same  indeed  after  a  life- 
time; neither  long  years  of  work  and  trouble,  nor 
pain,  nor  chill  winters  of  anxiety  ever  dimmed 
its  clear  simplicity,  though  his  spectacles  may 
have  sometimes  come  between  his  eyes  and 
those  who  did  not  know  him  very  well. 

He  used  to  take  his  spectacles  off  when  he 
looked  at  this  old  water-color.  "  It  is  a  pretty 
drawing,"  he  used  to  say ;  but  if  his  father,  in 
the  picture,  could  have  risen  from  the  chair 
he  would  have  been  about  nine  feet  high,  ac- 
cording to  the  length  of  the  legs  there  depicted. 
My  own  father  used  to  tell  us  he  could  just  re- 
member our  grandfather,  a  very  tall,  thin  man, 
rising  out  of  a  bath.  He  could  also  remember 
the  crocodiles  floating  on  the  Ganges,  and  that 
was  almost  all  he  ever  described  of  India,  though 
in  his  later  writings  there  are  many  allusions  to 

All  rights  resetted. 




^ja      t'^  '  v.*  f 

I      I    F     THA,  KERA^■S  —  MK.     AND     MRS.     RICHMOND     THALtCIiUAV,     .\ND    THEIR    SON.     LITTLE    WILLIAM 

East  Indian  life.  In  "  The  Tremendou.s  Ad- 
ventures of  Major  Gahagan,"  for  instance,  there 
is  enough  meaning  and  intention  in  the  names 
and  Hindustanee  to  show  that  he  still  retained 
something  of  his  early  impressions. 

A  year  after  the  sketch  in  question  was  painted. 

the  peaceful  home  in  India  was  broken  up  for- 
ever. The  poor  young  collector  of  the  twenty- 
four  Perganas  died  of  a  fever  on  board  a  ship, 
where  he  had  been  carried  from  the  shore  for 
fresher  air  ;  this  was  about  1816,  when  my  father 
was  five  vears  old. 




Richmond  Thackeray  was  himself  httle  over 
thirty  when  he  died.  His  young  widow  re- 
mained in  India  ^\ath  her  mother,  and  married 
a  second  time.  Two  years  after  her  first  hus- 
band's death,  her  httle  son  came  back  to  Eng- 
land with  a  cousin  of  the  same  age,  both  return- 
ing under  the  care  of  an  Indian  ci\-ilian,  Mr. 
James  iMcXabb,  who  had  promised  to  befriend 
the  chOdren  on  the  journey  home,  and  of  whose 
kindness  we  were  often  told  in  our  childhood. 

In  the  Roundabout  Paper,  on  "  Letts's  Diary," 
my  father  mentions  this  verj'  coming  home.  He 
is  speaking  of  this  cousin,  Sir  Richmond  Shake- 
spear,  who  had  been  his  httle  playmate  and 
friend  from  the  time  of  their  birth.  "  In  one  of 
the  stories  by  the  present  writer,"  he  says,  "a 
man  is  described  tottering  up  the  steps  of  the 
Ghaut,  ha\ing  just  parted  with  his  child  whom 
he  is  dispatching  to  England  from  India.  I 
wTOte  this,  remembering  in  long,  long  distant 
days  such  a  Ghaut,  or  river-stair,  at  Calcutta ; 
and  a  day  when  down  those  steps,  to  a  boat 
which  was  in  waiting,  came  two  children  whose 
mothers  remained  on  the  shore.  One  of  these 
ladies  was  never  to  see  her  boy  more."  (So  he 
says  speaking  of  his  aunt  Mrs.  Shakespear.) 

My  grandmother's  was  a  happier  fate,  and 
she  returned  to  make  a  home  for  her  son,  and  to 
see  him  grow  up  and  prosper  and  set  his  mark 
upon  his  time. 


Before  going  any  further  the  writer  must 
explain  how  it  has  come  about  that  these  few 
papers  and  drawings  are  now  for  the  first  time 
given  to  the  public. 

A  little  more  than  a  year  ago  an  American 
gentleman  came  to  see  us  at  Southmead,  where 
we  were  then  living,  with  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion from  a  friend,  and  at  his  request  I  showed 
him  some  letters  and  drawings,  and  the  picture 
of  my  father  which  I  have  been  describing,  and 
some  of  my  father's  MSS.,  in  all  of  which 
he  took  the  same  warm  and  responsive  interest 
which  has  so  often  been  shown  by  the  American 
as  well  as  the  Enghsh  readers  of  "  Vanity  Fair  " 
and  "  Pendennis."  Among  the  letters  were  two 
or  three  very  early  epistles  I  had  lately  found : 
written  at  the  time  of  my  father's  first  .coming 
home  to  England,  when  all  our  present  race  of 

elders,  statesmen,  poets,  and  philosophers  were 
also  httle  boys — and  girls,  shall  we  say? — play- 
ing in  their  nurseries,  spinning  their  hoops  and 
tops,  peacefully  awaiting  the  coming  whirhgigs 
of  life.  I  had  found  the  letters  by  chance  one 
day,  in  a  packet  which  had  been  preserved  by 
my  grandmother  for  half  a  centur\-.  It  had  then 
lain  undisturbed  for  nearly  twenty  years  after  her 
death,  for  so  much  time  had  passed  since  they 
were  first  written  by  the  httle  boy  in  the  quiet 
Hampshire  village  to  his  mother  in  India. 

I  showed  these  childish  letters,  among  other 
things,  to  my  American  ^isitor,  as  I  have  said, 
and,  not  long  afterward,  he  wTOte  to  me  con- 
vening the  request  of  the  Editor  of  St.  Nicho- 
las, that  I  would  let  the  magazine  ha^e  them 
for  the  benefit  of  its  young  readers.  I  had 
some  hesitation  at  first  in  compl)ing  with  the 
request, —  for  it  is  difficult  to  go  against  a  hfe- 
long  habit,  and  I  have  always  felt  bound  by 
my  father's  objections.  After  a  time  I  spoke  to 
my  old  friend  Mr.  George  Smith,  to  whom  my 
father's  copyrights  belong.  He  willingly  con- 
sented and  saw  no  real  hindrance  to  the  publi- 
cation. And,  as  I  looked  again  at  the  child's 
writing,  I  felt  that  even  the  most  fastidious  could 
not  find  any  breach  of  confidence  in  printing  the 
simple  hnes ;  and,  apart  from  aU  other  reasons, 
it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  us  and  to  our  own  chil- 
dren to  see  them  reproduced.  I  was  sure,  too, 
that  many  American  boys  and  girls  and  their 
elders  would  be  interested  to  see  how  the  w riter 
of  "Vanity  Fair"  began  his  life-long  work. 

And  so  it  happened  that  one  summer's  day 
this  year  a  little  cart  drew  up  at  our  garden 
gate,  a  photographer  and  a  camera  were  landed 
on  the  doorstep,  the  camera  was  set  up  in  a 
comer  of  the  garden,  the  sun  came  out  from  be- 
hind a  cloud,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  the  letters 
were  copied,  the  pictures  and  the  bust  were 
reproduced,  the  picture  went  back  to  its  nail, 
and  the  letters  to  their  drawers,  and  the  cart 
rumbled  off  w  ith  the  negatives,  of  which  the 
proofs  have  now  reached  me  from  America. 


"When  I  first  saw  England,"  my  father  writes 
in  his  lecture  upon  George  III.,  "she  was  in 
mourning  for  the  young  Princess  Charlotte,  the 




hope  of  the  Empire.  I  came  from  India  as  a 
child,  and  our  ship  touched  at  an  island  on  the 
way  home,  where  my  black  servant  took  me  a 
long  walk  over  rocks  and  hills  until  we  reached 
a  garden  where  we  saw  a  man  walking.  '  That 
is  he,'  said  the  black  man.  '  that  is  Bonaparte  ; 
he  eats  three  sheep  every  day  and  all  the  little 
children  he  can  lay  hands  on  ! ' " 

The  Httle  traveler  must  have  been  about  six 
years  old  when  he  landed  in  England.  He  was 
sent  to  Fareham,  in  Hampshire,  to  the  care  of 
his  mother's  aunt  and  grandmother,  where  she 
had  also  lived  as  a  child  in  the  same  quiet  old 
house.  '-Tri-x's  house"  it  was  called  in  those 
days,  and  still  may  be  for  all  I  know.  It  stood 
in  Fareham  High  street,  with  pretty,  old-fash- 
ioned airs  and  graces,  and  a  high  sloping  roof 
and  narrow  porch.  The  low  front  windows 
looked  across  a  flower  garden  into  the  village 
roadway,  the  back  windows  opened  into  a  pleas- 
ant fruit  garden  sloping  to  the  river.  \\'hen  I 
myself  the  other  day  read  in  "  Prasterita  "  Rus- 
kin's  exquisite  description  of  the  fruit-bearing 
trees  and  bushes  in  his  own  childish  "  Garden  of 
Eden,"  straightway  came  to  my  mind  a  remem- 
brance, a  vision,  of  the  gooseberry  and  currant 
bushes  at  our  Aunt  Becher's,  and  of  my  little 
curly-haired  sister  sitting  on  the  ground  and 
filling  her  pinafore  with  fruit.  We  in  turn, 
children  of  a  fourth  generation,  were  brought 
for  a  time  to  the  old  house.  I  can  see  it  all  as 
plain  before  me  as  if  I  was  eight  years  old  once 
more ;  and  I  can  remember  hearing  my  grand- 
mother say  that,  according  to  her  own  remem- 
brance, nothing  was  changed  from  the  time 
when  she  too  had  returned  thither  from  India 
as  a  fatherless  child  to  dwell  in  the  quiet  vil- 
lage for  a  decade  of  years,  until  she  went  back 
to  India  again  at  sixteen,  dressed  for  the  jour- 
ney in  a  green  cloth  riding-habit  —  so  she  used 
to  tell  us  —  to  be  married,  and  to  be  a  mother, 
and  widoVed,  and  married  again  before  another 
decade  had  gone  by.  She  never  had  any  other 
child  than  my  father. 

My  sister  and  I,  coming  so  long  after,  suc- 
ceeded to  all  her  old  traditions:  to  the  oak 
stools  standing  in  the  window :  to  the  httle 
white  bed  in  the  upper  room ;  to  the  garden 
leading  to  the  river-bank.  We  made  cowslip 
balls  in  the  meadows  (how  often  we  had  heard 

of  them  before  we  came  to  Fareham  !).  All  our 
grandmother's  stories  came  to  life  for  us.  We 
too  had  pattens  to  wear  when  it  rained,  we  too 
had  "willow"  plates  of  our  own,  and  cherry-pie 
on  Sundays,  and  dry  bread  on  week  days;  we 
too  were  forbidden  butter  by  our  old  great- 
great-aunt  as  a  pernicious  luxury  for  children. 
AVe  were  afraid  of  the  old  aunt,  but  very  fond 
of  her,  for  she  used  to  give  us  half-sovereigns, 
and  send  us  charming  letters  in  her  beautiful 
handwriting.  The  little  old  house  was  as  pleas- 
ant within  as  without ;  big  blue  china  pots  stood 
in  the  corners  of  the  sitting-rooms  and  of  the 
carved  staircase  with  its  low  steps.  In  the  low- 
pitched  front  parlor  hung  the  pictures  (a  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  among  them)  of  generations 
not  so  far  removed  in  my  childish  days  as  they 
are  at  present,  being  now  buried  away  by  suc- 
ceeding lives — "oil  sous  son  pere  on  retrouve 
encore  son  pere  comme  I'onde  sous  I'onde  dans 
une  mer  sans  fond." 

My  father's  great-grandmother,  Mrs.  Becher, 
had  sat  to  Sir  Joshua  in  her  youth  —  she  died 
in  1825  at  eighty-nine  years  of  age.  Her  name, 
which  the  writer  has  inherited,  was  .\nne  Hays- 
ham  before  she  married,  and  we  have  a  copy 
of  the  Sir  Joshua  portrait,  representing  a  stately 
dame  in  the  flowing  draperies  of  the  period. 
She  lived  in  the  old  house  at  Fareham,  after 
her  husband's  death ;  she  was  the  mother  of 
many  daughters  and  tempestuous  sons.  The 
sterner  rule  of  those  Spartan  times  did  not  al- 
ways quell  the  wild  spirits  of  their  rising  gen- 
erations. My  grandmother  has  often  told  me 
that  Mrs.  Becher  never  called  her  eldest  daugh- 
ter anything  but  "  Miss  Becher " ;  her  little 
granddaughter  was  "  Miss  Nancy."  She  used 
to  come  and  go  leaning  on  a  beautiful  tortoise- 
shell-headed  cane.  I  have  played  with  the 
cane,  though  its  owner  died  long  before  I  was 
bom ;  as  for  the  great-aunt,  I  remember  her 
perfectly  well,  a  little  old  lady  in  a  flaxen  front 
with  apple  cheeks  and  a  blue  shawl,  holding 
out  her  welcoming  arms  to  the  third  generation 
of  her  brother  John's  descendants.  When  she 
died,  she  left  her  brother's  picture  out  of  the 
parlor  to  my  grandmother,  his  only  surviving 
daughter,  and  now  in  turn  it  hangs  with  its  red 
coat  upon  our  parlor  wall.  We  are  all  very  fond 
of  our  great-grandfather,  with  his  nice  coat  and 




lace  ruffles.  He  is,  in  the  portrait,  a  young  man 
of  some  twenty-five  years  of  age,  with  an  oddly 
familiar  face,  impulsive,  inquisitive, —  so  he 
strikes  me  at  least.  His  name  was  John 
Harman  Becher,  and  he  too  went  out  to  India 
and  did  good  work  there,  and  died  )«oung,  as 
did  so  many  others  —  in  those  adventurous 
days.  He  was  born  in  April,  1764,  and  died 
about  1800. 

Fareham  itself,  with  its  tall  church  spire  and 
its  peal  of  Sunday  bells  across  the  cowslip  mead- 
ows, was  a  Miss-Austen-like  village,  peopled  by 
retired  naval  officers  and  spirited  old  ladies  who 
played  whist  every  night  of  their  lives  and  kept 
up  the  traditions  of  England,  not  without  some 
asperity,  as  I  well  remember.  Among  other 
things  which  my  grandmother  has  often  de- 
scribed to  us  was  the  disastrous  news  of  Nelson's 
death,  coming  to  them  all,  in  that  same  little 
parlor  where,  a  few  years  after,  little  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray  sat,  laboriously  writing 
to  his  mother  in  India. 

This  letter,  the  earhest  we  have,  is  addressed  to 
"  Mrs.  R.  Thackeray,  care  of  Messrs.  Palmer's, 
per  P.  of  Orange,  Calcutta."  It  took  six  months 
to  reach  its  journey's  end. 

My  Dear  Ma.m.a.  I  hope  you  are  quite  well.  I  have 
given  my  dear  Grandmama  a  kiss  my  .\unt  Ritchie  is 
very  good  to  me  I  like  Chiswick  there  are  so  many 
good  Boys  to  play  with.  St.  James's  Park  is  a  very  fine 
place.  St.  Pauls  Church  too  I  like  very  much  it  is  a 
finer  place  than  I  expected.  I  hope  Captain  Smyth  is 
well  give  my  love  to  him  and  tell  him  he  must  bring  you 
home  to  your  affectionate  little  son 

\Vn.LiAM  Thackeray. 

"  WiUiam  got  so  tired  of  his  pen  he  could  not 
write  longer  with  it,"  says  his  great-aunt  in  a 
postscript  to  this  Indian  letter,  "  so  he  hopes  you 
will  be  able  to  read  his  pencil  .  .  .  He  drew 
me  your  house  in  Calcutta  [she  continues],  not 
omitting  his  monkey  looking  out  of  the  window 
and  black  Betty  at  the  top  dr)'ing  the  towels, 
and  he  told  us  of  the  number  you  collected  on 
his  birthday  in  that  large  room  he  pointed  out 
to  us !  "  There  are  also  a  few  words  from  an 
uncle  written  under  the  seal.  "  My  dear  Sister 
Anne,  I  have  seen  my  dear  little  nephew  and 
am  dehghted  with  him." 

Besides  all  these  postscripts  there  is  a  faint 
pencil  sketch  representing,  as  I  imagine,  Captain 

Carmichael-Smyth  on  horseback.  That  gentle- 
man was  then  just  engaged  to  my  grandmother, 
and  was  ever  after  the  kindest  of  friends  and 
parents  to  my  father  and  to  all  of  us. 

We  have  an  interesting  book  compiled  by  a 
meinber  of  the  family  for  private  circulation,  in 
which  there  is  an  account  of  my  father  as  a 
child.  "  His  habit  of  observation  began  very 
early,"  says  Mrs.  Bayne  in  this  volume.  '•  His 
mother  told  me  that  once  when  only  three  or 
four  years  old,  and  while  sitting  on  her  knee  at 
the  evening  hour,  she  observed  him  gazing  up- 
ward and  lost  in  admiration.  '  Ecco,'  he  ex- 
claimed, pointing  to  the  evening  star,  which 
was  shining  like  a  diamond  over  the  crescent 
moon.  This  struck  her  the  more  as  she  had 
herself  noticed  the  same  beautiful  combination 
on  the  night  of  his  birth.  '  Ecco  '  was  probably 
decco,  which  is  Hindustanee  for  '  look ! '  I 
have  often  heard  that  when  he  first  came  to 
London  and  was  driving  through  the  city  he 
called  out,  '  That  is  St.  Paul's ! '  He  had  rec- 
ognized it  from  a  picture.  He  was  with  his 
father's  sister,  Mrs.  Ritchie,  at  the  time,  and 
she  was  alarmed  by  noticing  that  his  uncle's 
hat,  which  he  had  put  on  in  play,  quite  fitted 
him.  She  took  him  to  Sir  Charles  Clarke,  the 
great  physician  of  the  day,  who  examined  him, 
and  said, '  Don't  be  afraid  ;  he  has  a  large  head, 
but  there  is  a  great  deal  in  it.'  " 

The  second  of  these  early  letters  is  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Carmichael-Smyth,  Agra.  It  is  written 
in  a  painstaking  copperplate  hand,  but  it  is  so 
evidently  under  superintendence  that  it  is  of 
much  less  interest  than  the  others.  He  was 
then  barely  seven  years  old. 

April  24,  1818. 
Mv  De.-vr  Mama:  I  received  your  kind  letter  which 

Mrs. was  so  good  as  to  read  to  me  as  I  am  not 

able  to  read  your  letters  yet  but  hope  I  shall  soon.  I 
have  lieen  twice  with  George  and  Richmond  to  dine  with 
Mr.  Shakespear  he  was  very  kintl  and  gave  me  a  great 
many  pretty  books  to  read  and  promised  I  should  go 
every  time  George  and  Richmond  went.  I  wrote  a  long 
letter  in  February  and  sent  it  to  .\unt  Becher  to  send  to 
you.  I  have  learnt  Geography  a  long  time,  and  have 
begun  latin  and  cyphering  which  I  like  very  much,  pray 
give  my  love  to  Papa,  I  remain  dear  Mama  yr  dutiful  son 

\V.  Thackeray. 

Looking  over  some  of  my  grandmother's 
early  letters  I  find  more  than  one  mention  of 






'    .1    ^  /   ^     /       /• 


i      '-'•y 

v^idij  Uim^d&f-ci/fi^''^''nM) 

\&.ilf  Vfii'^i 







FAC- SIMILE    OF     A     PORTION    OF    AN     EARLV     LETTER.       (SEE     PRECEDING    PAGE) 

my  father.  "I  have  had  a  delightful  letter 
from  my  man,"  the  mother  writes  from  India, 
and  then  quoting  from  her  own  home  corre- 
spondence she  continues  :  "  The  day  Charles 
[Col.  Carmichael-Smyth]  arrived,  he  [the  boy] 
was  in  high  spirits  all  day,  but  when  he  went 
to  bed  he  could  restrain  no  longer  and  burst 
into  tears.  The  servant  asked  him  why  he 
cried.  He  said,  '  I  can't  help  it,  to  see  one  who 
has  so  lately  seen  m)-  dear  mother  and  to  see 
her  picture  and  the  dear  purse  she  has  made 
for  me  ! '  " 


My  father  never  spoke  with  any  pleasure 
of  his  early  school-days.  As  we  drove  to  Rich- 
mond with  him  sometimes,  he  used  to  show 
us  the  comer  of  the  lane  at  Chiswick  which 
led  to  the  school  where  all  the  "good  boys" 
were  learning  their  lessons.  To  this  comer, 
soon  after  he  entered  school  as  a  very  little 
fellow,  he  ran  away,  and  then  was  so  fright- 
ened by  the  sight  of  the  Hammersmith  High 
Road  that  he  ran  back  again,  and  no  one  was 

,889]                                                  THE    BOYHOOD  OF    THACKERAY.                                                  IO5 

the   wiser.     Before  he  was   sent  to   Chiswick,  young  Hves  so  miserable  that  I  remember  kneel- 

I    believe    he    stayed,   for  some  months   only,  ing  by  my  little  bed  of  a  night,  and  saying.  Pray 

at  a  school  in  Hampshire,  where  his  cousins  God  I  may  dream  of  my  mother." 

also  were   pupils.     "  I   can  remember  George  The  next  letter  was  written  from  Fareham : 

coming    and    flinging    himself   down  upon  my  ^j^   dearest  of  all  dear  Mamas  :    I  have  much 

bed  the  first  night,"  he  wrote  long  after  to  his  pleasure  in  writing  to  you  again  from  Fareham  to  tell  how 

cousin,  Mrs.  Irvine,  sister  of  George  and  Rich-  happy  I  am.   I  went  to  Roche  Court  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

mond    Shakespear.      This   was    that    school   of  Thresher.     I  saw  a  birds  nest  with  young  ones  in  it,  in 

,  .  ,      ,                 ,       •       ti  „    T>„„„.^oK^,,f    ■D^,^o.-  a  beautiful  honevsuccle  bush  and  a  robbin's  in  another 

which    he    speaks  in  the   Roundabout    Paper,  t~,  ■   .      -        ^r    .        a        %u        t     n  if  .„ 

'                              ,   ,    J     ,                     11  place.     This  has  been  Neptune  day  with  me  1  call  it  so 

"  A  school  of  which  our  deluded  parents  had  ^^^^^^  j  ^^  ;^^,^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^  ^^  ,i^^  Neptune.     Your 

heard   a   favorable  report,   but   which  was   gov-  „i^  aquaintances  are  very  kind  to  me  and   give   me  a 

emed  by  a  horrible  little   tyrant  who  made  our  great  many  cakes  and  great  many  kisses  but  I  do  not  let 

'P  f /(Hire  0^0^ ci^au)//^r)<t^  ry^r  ^^cy>' ^^ /,^  ^U -^m J. 

y  'y-/:^yn(/i*>  u  pr/<f.  ^ykic^  C^y^oa  Xa<e^,-^j  A^^  ^^e^/*  ^^  \ 

/'t^4j/o^     r<^i^ACy^J't>^^  i^l{!A<f-0-C^  O07r?/S.Xr^7'7''C  ^i^CCy 

J  ''  ).>!//.   XJ,^./i  yic/,  /^fii 





OCTUroOT^^OfyC^  nf-^M.jd'C'^O'^^ -01.0X7/. 4^ 



Charles  Becher  kiss  me  I  only  take  those  from  the  ladies  — 
I  don't  have  many  from  Grandmama.  Miss  English  gives 
her  very  kind  love  to  you  and  begs  you  will  soon  come 
home.  Pray  give  my  kindest  love  to  Pappa.  Aunt  Becher 
bought  me  a  Caliduscope  it  is  a  very  nice  one  I  have 
spent  a  very  pleasant  day  at  Catesfield.  Miss  O'Bryen 
gave  me  a  very  pretty  jest  book  I  should  like  you  to  have 
such  another  pretty  house  as  Mrs.  O'Bryen's,  there  is  such 
a  beautiful  garden.  I  am  grown  a  great  boy  I  am  three  feet 
eleven  inches  and  a  quarter  high  I  have  got  a  nice  boat, 
I  learn  some  poems  which  you  was  very  fond  of  such  as 
the  Ode  on  Music  &c.  I  shall  go  on  Monday  to  Chiswick 
to  see  my  .\unt  Turner  and  hear  the  boys  speak.     I  in- 




tend  to  be  one  of  those  heroes  in  time,  I  am  very  glad  I 
am  not  to  go  to  Mr.  Arthur's.  I  have  lost  my  cough 
and  am  quite  well,  strong,  saucy,  and  hearty;  and  can 
eat  Granmama's  goosberry  pyes  famously  after  which  I 
drink  yours  &  my  Papas  good  health  &  a  speedy  return, 
believe  me  my  dear  Mama  your  dutiful  son 

\V.  Thackeray. 

My  father  must  have  been  a  sensitive  little 
boy,  quick  to  feel,  not  over  strong,  though  well 
grown.  He  was  always  very  short-sighted,  and 
this  in  his  school-days  was  a  great  trouble  to 



him,  for  he  could  not  join  in  the  games  with 
any  comfort  or  pleasure,  nor  even  see  the  balls 
which  he  was  set  to  stop  at  cricket.  In  those 
days  schools  were  not  what  they  are  now ;  they 
were  rough  and  ready  places.  He  used  to  de- 
scribe dreadful  arrangements  of  zinc,  vrith  oily 
streaks  of  soap  floating  on  the  black  waters, 
which  always  sickened  him,  and  which  were  all 
the  materials  that  the  little  boys  were  allowed 

a  perfect  recollection  of  me  ;  he  could  not  speak, 
but  kissed  me  and  looked  at  me  again  and  again. 
I  could  almost  have  said,  '  Lord,  now  lettest 
thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  for  mine  eyes 
have  seen  thy  salvation.'  He  is  the  living  image 
of  his  father,  and  God  in  heaven  send  he  may 
resemble  him  in  all  but  his  too  short  life.  He 
is  tall,  stout,  and  sturdy,  his  eyes  are  become 
darker,  but  there  is  still  the  same  dear  expres- 

>iy/vtu^  ^iw'-e  (/iou^^  6^- 



for  their  morning's  ablutions.  He  suffered  in 
health  as  well  as  in  spirits,  and  he  was  often 
laid  up.  And  it  seems  to  be  after  one  of  these 
passing  illnesses  that  the  letter  reproduced  in 
fac-simile  on  pages  105  and  106  was  written 
from  Fareham,  where  he  must  have  been  sent 
to  recover.  But  his  troubles  were  almost  at 
an  end,  for  his  mother  was  even  then  on  her 
way  home  and  he  had  no  need  to  dream  of  her 
dear  presence  any  more. 

This  is  her  account  of  the  meeting  :  "  He  was 
not  at  Chatham  when  we  arrived,  but  Mr. 
Langslow  brought  him  from  Chiswick  the  next 
morning,  for  Mrs.  Turner  would  not  part  with 
him  till  we  came,  that  I  might  see  him  in  full 
bloom :  and  truly  he  is  so.  dear  soul.     He  had 

\_KEKAV     !N      HIS     LO\H"OD. 

sion.  He  remembers  you  all  perfectly.  Aunt 
Maria,  I  think,  is  his  favorite  still.  The  moment 
he  saw  the  gold  knife,  he  said,  '  Oh,  my  grand- 
mamma gave  me  this,  and  I  poked  Dash  ^\'ith 
it.'     His  dra>ving  is  wonderful." 

After  drawing  Captain  Smyth,  the  house  in 
Calcutta,  and  Betty  hanging  out  the  clothes,  as 
he  did  on  his  first  arrival,  the  little  boy  went  on 
to  draw  everything  else  that  struck  his  fancy. 
He  liked  to  draw,  not  so  much  the  things  he 
saw  as  the  things  he  thought  about:  knights 
with  heraldic  shields,  soldiers,  brigands,  drag- 
ons, and  demons :  his  school-books  were  all  oma- 





mented  with  funny  fanciful  designs,  his  papers 
were  covered  with  them.  When  he  was  still 
quite  a  little  fellow,  he  used  to  manufacture  small 
postilions  out  of  wafers,  with  the  top-boots  in 
ink  and  red  coats  neatly  stuck  on.  As  he  got 
older,  he  took  to  a  flourishing  style,  with  split 
pens  for  his  instruments,  sketching  gentlemen 
with  magnificent  wreaths  of  hair  and  flaps  to 
their  coats,  ladies  with  wonderful  eyes  and  lips, 
in  style  all  curly  and  flourishing ;  but  these  e.x- 
periments  were  in  later  years,  after  his  mother's 
return  from  India. 

I  gladly  acceded  to  the  request  of  the  Editor 
of  St.  Nicholas,  who  asked  me  to  forward 
with  the  rest  of  the  papers  two  or  three  speci- 
mens of  my  father's  childish  drawings.  They 
are  taken  at  hazard  from  those  in  our  posses- 
sion. Here*  is  one  of  the  drawings  which  by 
the  writing  underneath  should  belong  to  these 
very  early  days  when  the  young  designer  was 
but  nine  or  ten  years  old.  We  must  not  fail 
to  observe  that  the  brave  captain,  kneeling  for 
mercy,  is  poking  out  his  companion's  eye  with 
his  sword,  while  the  gallant  warrior  in  a  cocked 
hat,  standing  up,  is  delivering  two  heavy  purses 
to  the  constable  (or  highwayman  ? )  with  his  club. 

Here  are  one  or  two  more  quotations  from 
the  mother's  letters  which  run  on  about  so 
many  unknown  things  and  people,  and  then 
here  and  there  comes  a  little  phrase  or  sen- 
tence belonging  to  one's  own  present  world  and 
dearest  interests : 

"  August,  1821. 

"  My  Billy-Man  is  quite  well.  I  must  tres- 
pass and  give  him  a  day  or  two  of  holidays. 
You  would  laugh  to  hear  what  a  grammarian 
he  is.  We  were  talking  about  odd  characters, 
some  one  was  mentioned,  I  forget  who.  Billy 
said, '  Undoubtedly  he  is  a  Noun  —  Substantive.' 
'  Why,  my  dear  ?  '  '  Because  he  stands  by  him- 

Here  is  the  history  of  a  relapse  : 

"  My  poor  Billy-Boy  was  getting  better  of  his 
cough,  and  he  was  going  into  school  when 
Henry  unfortunately  went  to  see  him  and  gave 
him  half-a-crown,  with  which  iny  little  Gentle- 
man must  buy  a  lump  of  cheese,  which  of  all 
things  you  know  was  the  very  worst,  and  brought 
back  the  enemy." 

Then  comes  an  account  by  the  Mamma  of 
the  school  of  which  the  little  scholar's  impres- 
sions were  so  different. 

*  See  page  107. 







,  J(|p'.3r»i:^: 

"  I  don't  think  there  could  be  a  better  school 
for  young  boys.  My  William  is  now  6th  in  the 
school,  though  out  of  the  26  there  are  only  four 
that  are  not  older  than  himself  He  promises 
to  fag  hard  till  Midsummer  that  he  may  obtain 
a  medal,  and  after  that  I  think  of  placing  him 
at  the  Charter  House.    .    .    . 

"  He  tells  me  he  has  seen  the  Prince  Regent's 
Yacht  in  Southampton  Water  and  the  bed  in 
which  his  Royal  Highness  breathes  his  /vva/ 

Again  — 

"  Billy-Man  says,  '  give  my  love  to  them  all, 
/  w!s/i  they  would  come  over.'     Here  is  the 

SHOULD     VOU     LIKE    TO     BE     SERVED    SO  ?  " 

little  figure  he  has  done  in  a  few 
minutes  of  Captain  Bobadil ;  it  was 
a  thick  pencil  and  he  could  not 
make  a  good  outline.  He  painted 
a  little  theater  for  young  Forrest,  or 
rather  a  scene  with  sides  entirely 
from  his  own  imagination,  which 
Mrs.  Forrest  says  was  capital. 

"  Our  time  is  limited  to  the  19th, 
when  I  must  be  at  Chiswick  to  hear 
my  little  hero  hold  forth  —  I  don't  know  how  I 
shall  go  through  with  it.  They  have  not  selected 
an  interesting  speech — Hannibal's  address  to 
his  soldiers  —  which  you  must  all  read  and 
fancy  me  and  Billy-Boy  —  but  you  can't  fancy 
such  a  great  fellow." 

('an  the  picture  on  page  1 08  be  Captain  Bob- 
adil, or  one  of  the  scenes  for  the  theater  ?  On 
this  page  is  a  thrilling  incident  from  the  Spanish 
Inquisition  carefully  painted  and  finished  up  by 
the  httle  artist. 


The  letter  which  follows  is  the  last  of  the 
early  letters,  and    is   dated   in    1822,   when    its 

no  THE    BOYHOOD    OF    THACKERAY.  [Dec. 

c/ccf^^.i-^/^^c^a    /a^n:  ^0/(97 

y/    .        ^  ^    y  -^   • 

//^^   ^^   a/,^cU  ^/^, 

— :r  ;  ^  ^  ''''^'-^j'/f^^^ir/^  a^^  ,x^  c^. 



writer    was    eleven    years   old.      His    stepfather  i"k  and  all  I  hope  you  will  wrile  to  me  soon  at  least 

had  been  appointed  Governor  of  Addiscombe,  "f'"^^''  '^^"  y°"  ^'^  1^^'  q"^'"=''  '^  '^"  """^  =*"  ^^out 

J,.                 ,.-             „          „.          11,  Addiscombe  &  the  Gentlemen  Cadets  and  tell  me  if  Papa 

and    his   own  hte   at    Orey-tnars    had   bet'un.  ,          ^      ,  .,  .i   .    -n  £.  i.-        nr    i,     i                 ij 

-'                                    °  has  got  a  /Mi"  that  will  fit  hun.      My  hands  are  so  cold 

tliat  I  can  hardly  write.      I  have  made  a  vow  not  spend 

Charter  House,  Jan.  20,  1822.  that  five  shilling  piece  you  gave  me  till  I  get  into  the 

My  dear   Mother  :  8th  form  which  I  mean  to  ask  for  tomorrow.     The  holi- 

I  am  now  going  to  begin  bothering  you  days  begin  on  the  23rd  of  .^pril  but  it  wants  13  weeks 

that  letter  I  wrote  to  Butler  was  only  a  bit  of  a  preface  I  to  them  it  will  be   your  time   to  ask  me   out  in  three 

dare  say  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  use  a  whole  sheet  weeks  two  more  Saturdays  must  pafs  and  then  it  will  be 

of  paper  but  I  have  laid  in  a  stock  for  the  quarter  pens  the  time  for  me  to  go  out.     Is  Butler  gone  to  .Addis- 

1889.]  THE    BOYHOOD    OF    THACKERAY.  I  i  i 

J?  /  f  *  •'  ■  ' 

//      ^  '     '  /  ■'  '  '    " 

/  ^  ■  0  ■  ■ '       ' 



■<'>'/-  J-tc/L'  /■  «'  .v-^V.  A>;  -v./.'^''- 


combe  with  you  ?     We  have  got  a  new  master  hii  name      travel    Oil    the    stage-COach    when    the    long-ex- 
is    Dickin  — Dickins   or    Dickinson.      Give   my  love   to      pgcted   holidays   Came  round   at   last.* 

Papa  and  I  remain  Yours  truly  ti      r       i-      •  c  ^\.  ^  1  c  o 

,,,   ,,  T,  1  he  frontispiece  ot  the  present  number  of  St. 

W.  M.  Thackeray.  '  ' 

,,,  ..         .  .  ,  Nicholas  is  engraved  from  the  photograph  of 

Write  again  as  quick  .as  you  can.  "  101 

a  bust  of  little  William  Makepeace  Thackeray 

Eventually,    Major    and    Mrs.    Carmichael-    which  was  made  in  the  same  year  as  that  to 

Smyth    settled    at    Fairoaks,    near    Ottery    St.     which  this  last  letter  belongs.    A  foreigner  called 

Mary,    whither    the    little    schoolboy    used    to     Devile,  or  Delile,  came  over  with  an  ingenious 

*  One  of  the  very  earliest  of  my  memories  is  that  of  an  old  servant,  a  toothless  "  old  John,"  in  knee-breeches, 
who  had  followed  the  family  fortunes  from  Devonshire  to  Coram  street,  where  my  father  and  mother  lived  in 
London.      His  picture  is  to  be  seen  in  Pendennis,  with  a  coal-scuttle. 

W.    M.    T1!ACKLRA\" 

(LV     J  Lk.Mi.-.Slu.\ 

>^v^tl^    COMPANY.) 

process  for  taking  people's  portraits  by  casts 
which  he  afterwards  worked  up  and  put  to- 
gether, and,  thanks  to  his  skill,  we  possess  this 
really  admirable  portrait  of  the  boy  as  he  was 
on  the  ist  of  June,  1822,  which  is  the  date  upon 
the  pedestal.  The  letter,  it  will  be  seen,  is  dated 
in  January  of  1822. 

I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  add  to  these  glimpses 
and  mementos  of  his  early  life  a  picture  that 
represents  my  father  as  I  remember  him  best. 
The  frontispiece  shows  him  as  a  boy ;  the  en- 

graving on  this  page  is  from  the  last  photograph 
ever  taken  of  him.  All  a  lifetime  lies  between 
the  two  portraits,  all  its  sorrows  and  successes, 
its  work  and  its  endurance.  No  words  of  mine 
are  needed  to  point  out  the  story.  As  a  boy,  as 
a  man,  my  father  held  to  the  truth  as  he  felt  it 
to  be,  to  the  duties  and  courageous  things  of 
life.  He  bore  much  trouble  with  a  brave,  cheer- 
ful heart,  and  he  made  all  who  belonged  to  him 
happy  by  his  generous  trust  in  them,  and  his 
unchangincf  tenderness  and  affection. 


By  Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson. 


All  the  folks  that  live  out  here, 
Wish  you  Merry  Christmas,  dear! 
Funny,  furry  little  hares. 
After  dark,  when  no  one  cares, 
Come  to  dance  upon  the  snow. 
Glad  it  's  Christmas  time,  you  know. 

And  the  litde  cliickadees, — 
You  would  think  their  feet  would  freeze,- 
They  sit  chirping,  gay  enough, 
With  their  feathers  in  a  fluff, 
"  Merry  Christmas,  when  it  comes, 
Gives  us  aU  a  lot  of  crumbs  !  " 

And  your  dear  old  friend,  the  crow. 
He  and  all  his  brothers  go 
Teetering  across  the  snow, 
Two-and- twenty  in  a  row  : 
Every  crow  with  one  keen  eye 
For  the  changes  in  the  sky. 
And  another  for  the  ground 
And  whatever  's  to  be  found. 
Oh !  the  crows  look  sly  and  queer 
Just  about  this  time  of  year  1 
If  they  'd  only  tell  in  sleep 
All  the  secrets  that  they  keep ! 
Don't  you  s'pose  they  know  it  's  right 
To  hang  a  stocking  up  at  night  ? 
Don't  you  s'pose  they  know  this  minute 
Everj'thing  there  will  be  in  it  ? 

People  used  to  half-believe 

Cows  could  talk  on  Christmas  eve. 

Standing  parient  in  the  stall, 

When  the  night  began  to  fall ; 

That  they  talked  of  that  strange  sight 

In  a  stable  Christmas  night. 

Don't  you  wonder  if  they  do  ? 

Don't  you  wish  that  it  was  true  ? 

Stars  at  Christmas,  don't  you  think. 

Have  a  sort  of  knowing  wink  ? 

And  the  flowers  underground 

Asleep  when  Christmas  comes  around, — 

Don't  you  think  it  really  seems 

As  if  they  must  have  Christmas  dreams  ? 

Happy  dreams  be  yours,  my  dear, 
Christmas  night,  and  all  the  year ! 


Trill,  trill,  trill. 

Sweet  and  shrill. 
From  the  dark  side  of  a  stone ; 

Summer  is  flown  away, 

Clover  is  made  into  hay, 
Autumn  nights  are  chill ; 

Trill  away,  little  Cricket ! 
Out  in  the  dark  alone. 

Trill,  trill,  trill, 

The  tree-tops  are  still, 

Never  a  katydid  about 
And  the  firefly's  torches  are  burned  out. 

Trill  away,  little  Cricket ! 
The  stars  listen,  no  doubt. 

Trill!  trill!  trill! 

A  summer  tune 
Makes  not  November  June. 

Everything  has  an  end. 

And  so  has  thy  song,  little  friend  I 
Tweak !  the  frost  nips  —  thou  art  still ! 

\oJ..  XVII.— 14. 





[Dame  Gillian  Fenn  tells  the  tale  to  her  chil- 
dren, and  others  of  her  household, —  all  seated 
round  a  blazing  fire, —  on  Christmas  eve,  of  the 
Year  of  Grace  1652,  in  olden-time  Virginia] : 

Well,  well !  all 's  ready  for  the  morrow,  thank 
patience !  with  making  and  baking,  roasting 
and  toasting,  fairly  done.  And  what  will  ye  be 
having  to-night,  pray  ?  That  same  old  tale  of 
Indian  Simon  that  I  did  tell  you  once  afore  ? 
Welladay !  if  it  pleased  you  so  rarely  at  first 
time  o'  hearing,  I  '11  e'en  tell  't  again.  'T  is  no 
such  smooth-tripping  a  merry-go-round  as  some 
folk  like  best  this  season,  nor  hath  it  merry  end- 
ing, neither  —  for  all  some  lives  were  saved  by 
the  turn  o't ;  but  't  is  only  fair,  I  'm  thinking, 
that  you  young  ones  should  be  made  acquaint 
with  what  your  forebears  did  suffer  and  adventure 
a-planting  tliis  New  World.  Ye  may  set  your- 
selves up  to  do  great  things,  mayhap,  i'  the  days 
to  come  —  but  if  e'er  ye  've  a  mind  to  go  brag- 
ging, wh)',  look  ye  first  behind.  'T  will  do  you 
no  harm,  I  warrant.  Folk  should  set  proper 
store  by  homes  so  hard-won  from  the  wilder- 
ness, nor  grudge  honest  tilling  o'  the  ground 
that  was  so  well  watered  with  fathers'  blood. 
Aye,  aye ;  't  is  peace  and  good  wiU,  this  Christ- 
mas eve,  an'  good  cheer  a  plenty,  to  boot ;  but 
as  for  the  winning  o't  all,  that  was  no  such  peace- 
ful a  matter,  as  ye  may  reckon.  Howsoever, 
bless  God !  we  need  fear  no  Indian  screechery 
breaking  in,  like  on  that  time,  to  spoil  talk  to- 

night. There  's  naught  worse  than  the  wind 
outside,  or  maybe  a  wolf  or  two,  now  and  again. 
Stir  ye  the  coals  and  pile  on  the  logs, —  Dickon, 
Jacky.  We  '11  tell  it  all  once  more  —  and  he 
shall  have  most  cakes  an'  beer  at  the  end,  with 
nuts  to  crack  no  less,  that  proveth  the  keenest 

—  Now,  't  was  after  a  right  strange  manner  of 
happening  that  the  lad  Simon  Peter  did  first 
come  to  dwell  amongst  us;  which  same  (for 
that  ye  may  the  better  understand  mine  own 
proper  tale  i'  the  telling)  I  will  now  in  brief 
relate  the  ins  and  outs  of  Truly,  his  descent 
was  from  none  too  good  nor  too  happy  a  stock, 
as  nobody  might  deny.  'T  was  of  that  heady 
and  high-stomached  tribe  called  Pianketank, 
who  rose  up  to  their  own  undoing  'gainst  the 
old  cruel  king,  Powhatan,  not  long  afore  the 
coming  of  the  English  into  Virginia.  So  that 
tribe  did  he  swiftly  and  most  furiously  fall  upon 
and  slay  to  the  last  man  (as  he  then  purposed 
and  believed),  with  all  the  rest  of  his  several 
under-tribes  helping  him  thereto  in  vengeance. 
And  when  they  were  all  so  bloodily  done  to 
death,  he  did  cause  to  be  cut  off  and  stringed  on 
a  string,  all  a-row,  the  ears  of  men,  women,  and 
children  —  and  there  were  they  hanged  up  be- 
t\vixt  two  trees  in  front  of  his  palace  door.  A 
brave  sweet  sight,  i'  faith,  and  a  most  pleasant  for 
his  royal  eyes  to  gaze  on,  and  also  a  signal  warn- 
ing 'gainst  such  like  rebeUious  oftense.  There 
were  they  seen  by  no  less  than  Captain  John 
Smith  himself,  with  others  of  his  company, —  to 

THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


their  great  mislike  and  amazement, —  as  was 
aftertime  ^mt  down  by  him  in  his  "  True  Rela- 
tion "  of  Virginia  matters,  and  may  to  this  day 
be  read.  Howsoever,  it  happened  that,  despite 
this  murtherous  and  savage  disposal,  there 
remained  yet  a  very  little  remnant  of  the  tribe 
Pianketank,  being  scarce  one  score  souls  in  all, 
who  got  them  away,  at  the  first  alarm,  in  swift 
flight  from  the  slayers  and  hid  in  the  dark  wil- 
derness till  after  King  Powhatan,  in  passage  of 
years,  died  and  was  buried.  E'en  then,  't  was 
said,  they  durst  hardly  venture  out  save  in  a 
very  secret  way.  But  seeing  that  none  molested 
them,  and  also  that  their  persecutors'  minds  had 
changed  with  vastly  changing  times  all  o'er  the 
land,  they  came  at  last  boldly  forth  as  any,  and 
settled  them  upon  the  woody  waste  that  even 
to  this  day  lieth  uncleared,  northward  of  the 
road  to  James  City.  So  there  they  builded  their 
wigwams  on  a  hillock  not  far  from  the  way,  and 
no  man  hindered  or  any-nise  denied  them  need- 
ful range  for  hunting,  fishing,  and  such  Uke  get- 
ting of  where\\athal  to  Hve.  As  for  the  white 
men  thereabout,  they  were  the  rather  overkind, 
I  do  reckon,  as,  to  such  marked  unfortunates, 
one  naturally  disposeth.  Yet,  as  folk  soon  'gan 
to  say,  't  was  like  enough  that  fault  o'  the  former 
quarrel  with  Prince  Powhatan  was  not  all  on 
one  side.  "What  's  bred  i'  the  bone  will- out  i' 
the  flesh,"  as  the  old  saw  runneth,  and  so  it  came 
to  pass  full  soon  with  these  poor  down-trod  and 
distrest  Pianketanks.  'T  was  not  alone  an  eU 
they  'd  be  content  with,  being  given  an  inch,  but 
a  thousand  miles,  more  like.  In  greedy  tricks, 
malice,  pride,  laziness,  and  fierce-mouthed  brags, 
they,  waxing  ever  more  insolent,  grew  daily  worse 
and  worse  —  and  as  for  Jack  o'  the  Feather,  he 
was  of  them  all  the  most  past  Christian  bearing. 
Now  his  sure-enough  Indian  name  was  not 
Jack,  but  Nemattanow  ;  only  the  English  called 
him  Jack  o'  the  Feather,  because  of  his  saucy 
tongue,  an'  because  of  his  being  always  so  finely 
rigged  up  with  feathers  in  the  wild  fashion  of 
his  sort.  For  tho'  't  was  naught  uncommon  to 
see  those  foolish  heathen  creatures  so  bedeckt 
and  set  off  with  plumage  of  birds  by  them 
caught  or  killed,  yet  never  another  one  was  seen 
to  match  this  Jack  in  such  outlandish  bravery 
and  ornamentation.  One  day  't  would  be  an 
eagle's  plume,  mayhap,  the  next  a  turkey-wing 

—  or  goodness  knoweth  what  new  thing  or 
t'  other!  There  be  wiser  folk  than  he  in  this 
world  that  think  fine  feathers  make  fine  birds, 
but  this  same  Jack  was  an  ill  bird,  I  do  reckon, 
for  all  his  royal  blood.  He  was  next  of  kin  to 
the  chieftain,  or  king,  as  they  called  him  (after 
their  high  and  mightj'  way),  who  was  killed  in 
the  former  massacre,  that  time  —  so  being  by 
blood,  as  in  natural  humor,  the  leader  and  ruler 
o'  his  crew,  in  mischief  as  in  all  else.  A  king 
well-nigh  without  subjects,  good  sooth !  and  in 
right  make-a-shift  case  ;  yet  the  lacking  in  pomp 
was  out-doubled  in  pride,  I  trow,  and  so  his  fall 
came  round. 

Now,  it  did  so  chance  one  day  in  a  busy  time 
of  harvest,  that  Master  Thomas  Godkyn,  his 
nighest  neighbor,  would  have  Jack  o'  the 
Feather  go  an  errand  for  him  to  Jamestown 
for  one  bushel  of  com  in  payment  thereof.  It 
was  easy  earning  of  good  bread,  but  my  royal 
red  gentleman  having  no  mind  for  such  honest 
humble  ser^ce,  not  he,  and  giving  a  short  and 
saucy  back-answer.  No,  with  some  brag  of  his 
kingly  blood,  moreover, — why,  then,  Master 
Godkyn,  mightily  put  about  and  vext  by  the 
denial,  did  burst  out  scornfully  a-laughing  at 
that,  sa}'ing,  "  I  pray  your  High  Majesty's 
pardon.  I'  faith,  I  did  forget  your  High  Majes- 
tical  state,"  quoth  he,  "  O  fine  king  o'  beggars 
in  a  palace  o'  poles  !  "  Whereupon  he  laughed 
again,  "  Ho,  ho !  "  a-tuming  on  his  heel ;  but 
as  for  Jack  o'  the  Feather,  he  looked  a  most 
black  an'  devilish  look,  as  who  would  fain 
strike  that  other  dead  ^Wth  's  tomahawk  for  very 
rage,  and  (crjdng  out  fiercely  in  his  Indian 
speech)  said,  "  Paleface  fool !  Thou  laughest 
loud  to-day,  but  I  will  laugh  louder  to-morrow." 

So  then  Master  Godkyn,  making  that  out 
shrewdly  to  be  threat  of  evil,  did  bethink  him 
that  he  would  look  keenly  to  any  such  risk. 
But  maUce  hath  many  ways  to  creep  as  well  as 
run, —  an'  who  may  guard  him  'gainst  the  cruel 
cunning  of  that  murtherous  red  people  ?  'T  was 
the  very  next  mom,  just  afore  day-breaking,  that 
he,  being  waked  up  from  sleep  by  a  most  fear- 
some bellowing  and  groaning,  as  of  some  great 
brute-beast  in  death  pain,  went  out  and  found — 
lo  and  behold !  —  his  brave  bull,  that  had  cost 
a  pretty  price  in  England,  besides  the  fetching 
of  it  hither,  there  was  it,  a-lying  i'  the  meadow, 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


ham-Stringed,  and  in  such  a  case  as  might  not 
be  anywise  holpen  save  with  a  bullet  through 
the  heart  for  pity's  sake. 

Now,  small  need  was  there  for  guessing  (as 
everybody  said)  whose  wicked  deviltry  this 
might  be.  And  some  of  the  neighboring  white 
people  would  be  for  shooting  Jack  o'  the  Feather 
with  the  same  gun  wherewith  they  had  dis- 
patched the  bull.  "  Kill  him !  kill  him !  "  cried 
these  hot-blooded  ones,  and  had  well-nigh  set 
off  furiously  so  to  do,  without  judge  or  trial, 
only  my  father —  Master  Barrow  —  said  nay  to 
that.  "We  will  not  so  bring  blood-guiltiness 
on  us,  neighbors,"  saith  he,  "  for  all  that  such 
mischief  may  no  longer  lodge  amongst  us.  We 
will  but  give  him  fair  warning  to  quit  these  parts 
straightway,  on  pain  o'  death.  Then,  if  he  do 
prove  contrary  and  resist,  his  blood  be  on  his 
head."  So,  that  being  agreed  on,  the  warning 
was  given  accordingly ;  and  as  for  that  villain, 
though  he  did  bitterly  deny  the  bloody  fact,  he 
durst  not  tarry  long  to  prove  him  innocent,  in 
sooth,  for  by  next  daybreak  he  was  clean  gone, 
with  all  his  fellows  and  belongings  (as  was  first 
supposed),  nobody  knew  which  way  or  whither. 

'T  was  on  the  even  of  that  same  day  that  my 
father,  a-passing  nigh  those  wigwams,  so  left 
standing  lonesome  and  empty,  did  hear  a  very 
little  wailing  voice  right  piteously  crying.  So 
he  stopped  and  listened,  and  being  distrest 
thereby  (for  the  sound  of  it,  as  I  have  heard 
him  say  a-many  a  time,  would  touch  heart  of 
stone)  he  went  to  find  what  that  might  be. 
And  there,  lo  !  what  doth  he  come  across,  weep- 
ing 'mongst  the  cold  ashes  all  frighted  and  alone, 
but  Jack  o'  the  Feather's  own  child, —  and  a 
mere  baby  lad,  at  that, —  by  those  most  wicked 
creatures  left  behind  to  perish,  with  neither  fire 
nor  victual. 

Now,  whether  he  had  hid  himself  away  (after 
the  roguish  trickery  of  such  very  little  ones)  and 
so  could  not  be  found  at  time  of  their  hasty  set- 
ting oi^",  or  whether  he  was  so  left  a-purpose  in 
cold  blood  from  the  notion  of  their  flight  being  by 
him  hampered.  Heaven  knoweth,  not  I !  Yet 
there  was  he,  to  a  certainty,  and  piteously  fam- 
ished withal ;  and  so  my  father,  being  a  feeling- 
hearted  man,  did  fetch  him  home  that  night  to 
our  house.  For  mine  own  self,  I  was  but  a  lit- 
tle babe  in  arms  that  time,  but  afterward  heard 

tell  enough  concerning  the  surprise  and  wonder- 
ment of  it  —  and  the  vexedness  of  my  poor 
mother  at  this  turn.  Truly  she  was  ever  set 
'gainst  this  outside  stranger,  e'en  from  the  first, 
but  as  for  Dickon  and  Francis,  they  were  right 
well  joyed  with  a  new  playfellow.  Mayhap  about 
three  year  old  did  he  seem,  and  nigh  Francis  in 
tallness,  though  not  so  bigly  set.  Words  had 
he,  a  plenty,  when  that  his  tears  were  dried  an' 
he  fairly  warmed  and  fed,  but  all  in  the  barbar- 
ous Indian  tongue,  such  as  not  even  my  father 
might  make  head  or  tail  of,  save  only  here  and 
there.  And  being  asked  his  name,  as  was  made 
shift  to  do,  he  cried  out  loud  and  proudly,  a- 
clapping  his  two  hands  together,  "  Totapota- 
moi !  Totapotamoi !  Totapotamoi  !  "  Whereat 
our  lads  laughed,  for  the  right  strange,  curious 
sound  thereof.  And  my  mother,  she  cried, 
"  Lord  ha'  mercy  upon  the  wild  heathen  crea- 
ture! "  But  my  father  said,  right  soberly,  "  'T  is 
good  enow  for  a  savage,  an'  hath  a  pretty  ring 
i'  the  sound  on  't  —  an'  that  's  truth.  Notwith- 
standing," saith  he  on,  "  't  is  no  proper  title  for 
any  decent  tame  creature  in  Christian  house- 
hold." So  he  named  him  Simon  Peter  from 
that  hour  —  by  which  name  he  was  soon  after 
brought  to  christening ;  and  that  did  we  ever 
call  him. 

And  thus  it  did  hap  that  he  first  came  to 
dwell  amongst  us. 

Now,  as  I  have  afore  said,  my  mother  was 
ever  misliking  of  it  from  the  very  first  thereof. 
Sore  vext  was  she,  poor  soul,  because  that  my 
father  would  have  the  likes  o'  such  brought  up 
'mongst  his  own;  for  she  was  high-notioned  in 
the  matter  of  our  company-keeping,  as  is  but 
natural  to  the  gentle-bom; —  yet  as  to  my  father, 
he  was  but  a  yeoman's  son  i'  the  old  country 
and  had  been  a  rough  fighter  'gainst  ill  fortune 
most  o'  his  days,  so  set  small  store  by  such  com- 
parisons i'  quality.  And  when  my  mother  would 
be  sending  Simon  to  the  kitchen  in  a  servant's 
place  (for  we  had  a  fair  sizable  house,  buOded 
all  of  stone,  with  kitchen  and  offices  thereto, 
separate  and  orderly  as  any  in  old  land  or  new), 
why,  then  the  master  said  stoutly  nay  to  that 
measure.  "  What,  wife,"  quoth  he,  a-smiling  so 
plaguingly  wthal,  "  shall  we  so  serve  this  prince  ? 
Is  he  not  of  the  king's  blood,  forsooth  ?  an'  to 
be  so  packed  off  in  kitchen  'mongst  common 

THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 

serving  men  an'  maids !  Fie,  fie !  "  saith  he ; 
whereat  the  mistress  crieth,  "  A  pretty  prince, 
indeed !  "  and  tossed  her  head,  a-looking  but 
scornfully  upon  the  poor  Indian  finery  (with 
beads,  gewgaws,  an'  such  like,  all  tarnished  an' 
meanly  make-a-shift  as  't  was)  of  the  dark  little 
lad.  Then  saith  she,  "  What !  wilt  thou  even 
such  a  swarth-skin  with  thine  own  children,  at 
bed  an'  board  ?  As  well  buy  them  a  blacka- 
moor brother  from  the  Dutch  ship,  forsooth ! 
I  'm  thinking  't  would  be  all  of  a  piece."  Yet 
my  father  spake  in  a  right  grave  way,  saying, 
"  Nay,  wife,  if  thou  canst  not  see  the  difference 
betwixt  a  blackamoor  an'  such  as  this  one,  I  pity 
thy  poor  sight.  I  see  God's  hand  i'  this  matter," 
quoth  he,  "and,  if  the  child  is  let  alone  by  his 
own  people  to  bide  peaceably  amongst  us,  it  shall 
be  share  an'  share  alike.  Nay,  nay  ;  my  young 
ones  shall  have  no  slaves  to  their  ordering,  red- 
skinned  or  black,  to  make  them  saucy  an'  master- 
ful. I  Hke  the  look  of  this  Simon  Peter  right 
well,  for  all  the  father  of  him  being  Jack  o'  the 
Feather.  He  shall  have  fair  chance,  by  St. 
George  ! — for  I  've  a  mind  to  play  a  game  with 
nature  in  this  business.  Aye,  we  will  see  where 
Dame  Nature  endeth  and  breeding  doth  begin — 
and  if  his  father  cometh  to  claim  him  some  day 
(for  all  't  is  not  likely  he  '11  be  taking  any  such 
pains),  why,  we  '11  e'en  give  the  boy  his  choice, 
to  go  or  stay,  an'  see  how  then." 

"Aye,  aye!"  saith  my  mother,  "we  will 
see."  Still,  notwithstanding,  she  made  no  more 
ado  that  time,  save  to  make  sure  of  Simon  Peter 
being  shrewdly  stript  of  his  outlandish  rags  and 
cleaner-washen  than  e'er  he  'd  been  in  his  life 
before,  I  reckon,  for  all  he  did  most  irefully 
resist  the  same  with  howUng.  And  after  that 
he  was  drest  in  a  fair  change  of  Francis's 
clothes,  the  while  his  own  new  ones  were  a- 

So  this  way  did  it  continue  as  my  father  said. 
And  we  four  children,  being  Dickon  and  Francis 
and  Simon  Peter,  with  httle  poor  me,  that  was 
the  one  girl  to  herself  'mongst  the  lads'  game- 
some roughness  —  we  four  did  grow  up  together 
as  brothers  an'  sister ;  scarce  anywise  remem- 
bering (for  all  we  might  daily  see  in  outside 
looks)  the  difference  in  blood.  Nay,  I  will  tell 
true  an'  say  out  —  howe'er  some  do  think  it 
■shameth  nature  —  that  I  loved  Simon  the  best 


o'  the  three.  He  was  the  kindest  and  the  lov- 
ingest  to  me,  I  trow ;  not  that  the  other  ones 
durst  be  contrariwise, —  or  would, —  but  't  was 
Simon  that  ever  tarried  behind  with  me  if  I 
fell  back  a-weary  by  hard  following  after  the 
rest.  Sometimes  he  bore  me  on  his  back  'cross 
the  stony  ground  or  thro'  the  running  water  — 
a-holding  on  for  dear  life  round  his  neck.  And 
when  I  'd  a  mind  to  be  playing  with  my  doll 
Queen  Bess  at  a  brave  feast,  with  wine  in  acorn 
cups  and  the  like  child's  play-acting  foolery, 
why,  't  was  ever  Frank  an'  Dicky  that  mocked 
and  would  fain  turn  all  naughtily  upside  down, 
to  plague  me,  had  not  Simon  so  stoutly  stood 
my  part  against  them. 

Now,  as  to  the  color  of  his  skin  (that  some 
amongst  you  listening  would  so  mislike,  may- 
hap), I  being  used  to  it  life-long,  in  a  manner, 
was  nowise  frighted  at  that.  For  the  rest,  he 
was  comely  enough.  His  eyes,  they  were  of  a 
very  dark  blackness,  but  piercing  keen  and 
bright ;  his  hair  was  black  and  straight  down- 
hanging,  and  not  soft  to  touch,  tho'  he  would  be 
oft  a-laying  his  head  beside  me  to  be  stroked  with 
my  two  hands.  Slim-shapen  as  a  maid  was  he 
and  fair-featured,  like  to  the  pictures  of  Princess 
Pocahontas  herself,  whom  some  accounted  beau- 
tiful —  and  his  hands  and  feet  were  scarce  big- 
ger than  mine  own.  Yet,  for  all  thus  lightsomely 
builded,  his  strength  was  to  the  strength  of 
Francis  an'  Dickon  as  steel  to  wood,  be  it  never 
so  hard  wood  and  heavy,  or  a  silken  cord,  hard 
twisted,  to  a  rude  hempen  string.  There  was 
never  a  horse  that  could  throw  him  after  that 
he  was  big  enough  to  sit  well  astride  its  back  — 
not  even  the  wildest  colt  of  all  on  that  land 
—  when  the  lads  would  be  riding  them  to  water 
morn  and  even,  or  mayhap  (for  the  learning 
of  horsemanship)  around  i'  the  pasture  field. 
Francis  an'  Dick  had  many  a  tumble,  I  promise 
you,  but  Simon  never  a  one.  At  running,  wrest- 
ling, and  all  such,  who  but  he  ?  Then  surely,  I 
do  reckon,  there  was  never  another  so  wondrous 
quick  at  book-learning,  so  knowledgeable  and 
cunning  skillful  in  all  ways.  Nay,  time  would 
fail  me  to  tell  you  the  half  of  his  ingenious  de- 
visings.  Such  curious  things  as  he  would  oft 
be  cutting  with  his  knife,  to  be  sure  ! —  as  beasts, 
birds,  fishes,  and  what  not, —  aye  !  even  human 
Hkenesses  no  less,  out  of  slate,  stone,  or  wood,  or 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


maybe  naught  but  a  handful  of  damson  seeds; 
and  for  snaring  of  wildwood  game  or  catching 
of  fish,  his  niatcli  was  never  seen. 

Howsoever,  despite  of  these  advantagements, 
and  despite  of  general  good  behavior  in  decent 
Christian  manner  o'  life,  yet,  crost  in  humor,  was 
he  still  (as  my  mother  scrupled  not  to  say  out, 
when  by  him  displeasured)  the  son  o'  his  father 
and  true  child  of  lawless  race.  Can  one  be 
holden  guilty  of  his  birth-shame,  good  sooth, 
or  cast  out  the  blood  that  naturally  runneth  in  's 
veins  ?  Nay,  not  so  —  meseemeth.  Therefore 
it  did  sorely  hurt  me  to  hear  my  mother  ever 
blaming  Simon  with  all  that  went  amiss  'twixt 
him  and  Francis.  She  was  a  good  woman, 
Heaven  rest  her  !  and  true  lover  of  them  she 
did  love,  but  yet  they  were  precious  few  so 
fayored,  and  Simon  not  one  amongst  them. 
Now,  with  Dickon  (he  being  of  a  rare  sweet 
humor)  did  Simon  carry  it  peaceably  enow; 
but  with  Francis,  who  was  heady  and  stubborn- 
tempered  as  Simon  himself, —  aye,  quicker  to 
make  mad,  tho'  not  so  fierce  i'  the  end  —  as  for 
those  two,  they  would  be  often  at  odds.  And 
one  day,  when  she  did  come  upon  these  twain, 
a-fighting  tooth  and  nail,  with  Francis  under- 
most an'  like  to  get  the  worst  on  't,  then  she 
cried  out  on  Simon,  for  a  heathenish  beggar's 
brat,  who  would  come  to  hanging  or  shooting 
yet,  as  't  was  to  be  hoped  his  father  had  'fore 
now.  'T  was  a  right  cruel  word,  there  's  no 
denying ;  yet  was  she  sorely  vext,  for  her  excuse. 
However,  he  turned  upon  her  with  so  tiger- 
fierce  a  look  that  she,  stepping  back,  cried  out, 
"  What,  snake-eye  !  wilt  thou  murther  me  as  I 
stand  ?  " 

And  so  he  looked  a'most  ready  to  do,  in 
sooth ;  but  up  cometh  my  father  then,  who 
was  a  just  man  to  see  the  rights  and  wrongs  of 
such  quarrels,  and  quoth  he,  "  Foolish  w-oman, 
wilt  thou  put  thought  o'  such  evil  into  him 
that  's  but  a  passionate  child  ?  Was  't  not  fair 
fight  betwixt  them  till  thou  didst  stir  up  this  ? 
Look  well  to  thine  own  \villful  young  one,  an' 
leave  the  lad  to  me." 

So,  after  that  time  my  mother  was  carefuller 
of  such  vexing  speech ;  yet  she  liked  Simon 
Peter  no  whit  more  in  her  heart. 

Aye,  aye;  he  was  no  gentle  lamb,  in  truth, 
nor  neither  was  our  Francis  for  the  matter  o' 

that  —  but  Simon  was  ever  kind  and  loving 
enough  unto  me. 

But  yet  ye  must  not  be  thinking  that  this  was 
ever  the  way  o't  with  us.  We  'd  a  happy  home 
as  any,  for  all  such  quarrelings  now  and  again. 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  a  plenty,  on  the 
new  rugged  land,  and  no  negro  slaves  to  tempt 
white  folk  into  idly  looking  on  the  while  they  be 
driven  as  brute-beasts  to  toil  an'  moil.  Some 
few  had  the  Dutch  ships  fetched,  e'en  then,  for 
trial,  but  my  father  would  none  of  them.  So 
when  that  the  lads  were  grown  big  enough,  they 
must  needs  be  a-working  i'  the  corn-fields  and 
tobacco  ground,  whilst  I,  with  my  mother  and 
the  maids  indoors,  was  learning  of  house  matters, 
as  becometh  a  proper  girl.  Yet  we  'd  no  stint 
of  sports,  in  due  season.  'T  was  gayly  and  free 
we  were  i'  the  summer  evens,  I  promise  you ; 
yet  the  best  of  all  came  round  on  winter  nights, 
when,  the  work  being  all  foredone,  we  might 
sit  us  down  by  the  fire  so  curiously  a-listening 
to  our  father's  talk  an'  tellings  of  former  times. 
A  many  fine  tales  we  heard  then,  concerning  the 
first  comers-over  to  Virginia,  their  hardships, 
trials,  and  very  dreadful  sufferings  in  every  sort ; 
and  of  the  great  Captain  John  Smith,  that  was 
so  bold  a  fighter,  and  likewise  of  the  most  gentle 
Princess  Pocahontas,  who  did  risk  her  life  for 
the  saving  of  his,  and  was  afterward,  in  her  lov- 
ing-kindness, the  savior  of  this  whole  Virginia 
from  destruction  ;  also  concerning  the  old  poli- 
tic King  Powhatan,  his  state  and  majestical  be- 
havior —  and  I  promise  you  that  Simon  would 
be  alway  keenly  hearkening  to  that.  Also,  my 
father  told  us  about  the  dark  time  of  the  famine 
at  Jamestown,  when  our  people  did,  for  very 
starving  hunger,  horridly  eat  the  carcasses  of 
such  amongst  them  as  had  of  hunger  died  ;  and 
that  was  what  Dickon  liked  best  of  all  to  hear ; 
but,  for  my  part,  I  would  the  rather  choose  the 
wreck  of  the  ship  "  Sea- Venture,"  that  was 
casted  away  on  the  Bermuda  Isles,  a-com- 
ing  to  Virginia,  and  how  one  Master  William 
Shakspere,  'way  off  in  England,  hearing  o't 
aftenvhile,  did  make  it  into  an  acting  play  called 
"  The  Tempest  " —  that  is  oft  played  i'  London 
Town  to  this  very  day. 

So  time  passed,  year  after  year,  till  our  Dickon 
was  a  great  lad,  with  Francis  and  Simon  turned 
thirteen  year  old,  and  me  'most  counting  ten; 

THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


and  then  came  to  pass  those  strange,  curious 
happenings  whereof  I  will  now  relate. 

Now,  all  this  while  that  Simon  so  dwelt  con- 
tentedly amongst  us  we  did  never  hear  aught  to 
a  certainty  of  Nemattanow,  called  Jack  o'  the 
Feather.  One  time,  or  twice,  came  a  bruit  from 
'way  off  yonder,  as  how  such  an  one  had  espied 
him  here,  or  another  there  ;  and  once  somebody 
told  it  that  he  had  been  catched  sight  of  in  the 
great  Indian  town  to  northward,  on  York  River, 
a-ruffling  it  with  the  other  braves  and  in  high 
favor  with  the  king,  Opechancanough.  How- 
soever, he  troubled  us  not,  all  this  so  long  while, 
and  well-nigh  had  we  forgot  him,  in  sooth,  till 
on  a  luckless  day  at  last  we  'd  a  pretty  prick  o' 
the  memory ! 

Now,  't  was  one  fair  even  in  May-month  o' 
the  year  1622,  when  this  turn  on  a  sudden  came 
to  pass. 

I  mind  me  right  well,  as  't  were  but  yester 
eve,  how  the  sky  did  shine  all  of  a  rosy  golden 
color,  and  the  little  winds  did  blow  so  softly, 
with  smell  o'  May-blooms  and  sound  o'  bird- 
songs  every  which-a-way.  'T  was  milking-time, 
a  bit  past  sundown,  and  all  of  us  out  nigh  the 
cow-pen  down  i'  the  meadow.  And  my  father 
and  mother  so  leisurely  looked  on  whilst  the 
maids  milked;  yet  we  children  did  care  naught 
how  much  went  dairy-way  so  we  'd  only  our  fill 
o'  the  syllabub  and  our  sport  with  the  youngling 
calves.  And  there  were  we,  so  merrily  together, 
when  who  doth  come  walking  out  of  the  wood's 
edge  hard  by  and  so  boldly  into  our  very  midst 
but  an  Indian  man  that  I  'd  never  before  set 
eyes  on. 

Now,  he  was  of  a  tall  stature,  and  fierce-ap- 
pearing withal.  His  skin  was  mighty  dark  and 
weather-worn.  His  quiver  for  arrows  was  fash- 
ioned out  of  a  wolf's  hide,  with  the  natural  head 
right  grisly  hanging  down,  having  a  sort  of  wild 
terror  i'  the  look  o't.  In  his  right  hand  he  did 
carry  a  great  bow,  and  also  in  the  way  of  war- 
like arms  a  tomahawk  set  in  's  leathern  girdle. 
Upon  his  shoulders,  breast,  and  legs,  that  were 
naked  and  sunburnt  to  blackness,  were  painted 
stripes  and  rings  in  divers  colors  commingled. 
Round  his  neck  and  wrists  did  hang  great  strings 
o'  beads,  right  gaudily  colored  —  and  for  all  his 
fierce  aspect  he  'd  earrings,  like  any  woman, 
a-dangling  from  his  ears.     Atop  of  his  head  the 

hair  stood  up  bristling  in  a  narrow  ridge,  after 
the  way  of  a  cockscomb,  from  brow  to  nape, 
but  't  was  clean  shaven  away  on  both  sides; 
and  out-topping  all  —  being  someway  outland- 
ishly  stuck  i'  the  very  crown  o'  the  ridge  —  was 
a  prodigiously  great  and  long  eagle's  feather. 

Then  all  of  us  stopped  short  our  doings  as  he 
drew  nigh,  for  gazing  curiously  upon  him.  And 
in  answer  to  mannerly  good-even  of  us  all,  he 
did  give,  as  't  were,  a  grunt,  after  the  fashion  of 
his  people,  belike ;  yet  when  my  father  saith  to 
him  then,  "  Sir,  what  is  your  business  here  this 
even  ?  "  he  said  not  a  word,  only  he  stood  stead- 
fastly looking  upon  Simon. 

So  then  we  did  all  turn  the  same  way,  and 
behold!  Simon  had  gone  ashen-white  under 
his  natural  brownness ;  and  he  stood  stone-still, 
a-staring  at  that  other,  like,  mayhap,  as  when 
one  doth  see  on  a  sudden  the  ghost  of  somebody 
long  dead,  and  well-nigh  forgot,  beck  to  him  out 
o'  the  darkness.  And  whiles  we  all  so  stood,  in 
wonder,  the  Indian  man,  pointing  to  his  own 
breast,  did  say,  in  a  harsh  voice,  "Me  father, 
me  father !  "  and  then,  pointing  to  Simon  straight, 
said,  "  He  son,  he  son  !  "  Which  spoken  he 
waved  his  hand  back  that  way  he  had  come 
and  cried  in  a  louder  voice  right  fiercely,  saying, 
"  Son  go  with  father  !  " 

Then  Simon  answered  ne'er  a  word,  but  my 
father  spoke  up,  crying,  "  Ha !  Jack  o'  the 
Feather  !  I  thought  I  had  seen  thy  rascally  face 
before.  Barest  thou  set  foot  in  these  parts  again  ? 
A  pretty  father  thou  art,  that  didst  leave  thy  son 
to  starve  !  'T  is  no  thanks  to  thee,  I  trow,  that 
he  is  'Hve  an'  well  to-day,  an'  by  right  and  might 
I  swear  he  shall  not  go  with  thee,  fellow,  except 
he  himself  do  so  choose ! " 

Then  saith  he  to  the  lad,  "  Simon  Peter,  this 
is  in  truth  thy  father,  of  whose  kindness  to  thee 
thou  'st  often  heard  tell.  Wilt  thou  willingly  go 
with  him  ?  " 

But  yet  Simon  was  as  one  dumb,  speaking  no 
word ;  only  he  shook  in  every  limb  as  struck  by 
a  shaking  ague.  And  Jack  o'  the  Feather,  see- 
ing that,  saith  unto  him  a  few  words,  right  low, 
— i'  the  Indian  tongue,  I  reckon,  for  they  were 
such  as  none  among  us  sensed  the  meaning  of. 
Now  't  was  little  of  that  speech  that  Simon  did 
by  this  while  remember,  save  a  word  o't  here 
an'  there,  half  lost  in  's  mind.     Howsoe'er,  when 

I  20 

THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


that  he  did  hear  it  now  spoken,  he  looked  in  a 
wild  way,  as  when  one  heareth  in  dreams  a  very 
strange  back-drawing  voice  of  witchery  that  he 
may  scarce  resist  but  is  yet  death-frighted  to  fol- 
low. In  faith,  I  was  like  to  cry  out  loud  that 
moment  —  for  I  did  think  by  the  look  o'  his 
eyes  then  that  he  was  going  sure  enow.  Never- 
theless was  there  no  need  for  such  fear,  for  he 
on  a  sudden  put  his  two  hands  over  his  face  and 
cried  out  with  a  loud  voice,  "  No !  no !  no !  I 
will  not  go  with  thee  !  " 

Now,  that  hearing,  the  Indian  looked  a  very 
black,  murtherous  look,  and  laid  hand  on  his 
tomahawk,  but  my  father,  stepping  quick  afore 
the  lad,  saith  unto  him,  "  Begone  !  "  in  such  voice 
as  e'en  Jack  o'  the  Feather  dare  not  brook,  I 
ween.  Go  he  did,  of  a  truth,  an'  that  straight- 
way, yet  slept  he  slow  and  proudly,  as  in  very 
vexing  scorn ;  and  at  the  wood's  edge  he  turned 
him  round  and  waved  his  bow  in  threating  way, 
as  half  in  mind  to  shoot.  Howbeit,  that  he  did 
not,  but  passed  into  the  dark  forest,  and  we  saw 
him  no  more.  And,  I  promise  you,  e'en  my 
mother  did  carry  it  right  lovingly  to  Simon 
that  night. 

Now  the  chance  that  did  befall  Jack  o'  the 
Feather  that  same  even,  aye,  within  the  very 
same  hour,  was  none  of  our  fault,  thank  Heaven  ! 
yet  truly  scarce  more  than  his  fair  desert  and  no 
just  cause  of  grieving  to  anybody.  'T  was  as  he 
was  making  so  hardily,  and  in  a  swaggering 
manner  o'  boldness,  along  the  open  highway, 
that  whom  doth  he  meet,  face  to  face,  but  Mas- 
ter Thomas  Godkyn!  Small  wonder  (as  was 
commonly  said  by  all)  that  Master  Godkyn 
waxed  right  mad  at  that  sight.  Be  that  as  may, 
he  was  ever  a  passionate  man,  besides  that  time 
somewhat  in  liquor,  no  less,  an'  there  passed 
sharp  words  betwixt  'em  on  that  old  matter  o' 
the  maimed  bull.  'T  was  Jack  o'  the  Feather 
that  struck  first  blow  (as  Master  Godkyn  did  after- 
time  solemnly  swear)  and  't  was  Master  GodkjTi 
that  slew  him  in  the  fight  that  so  followed.  And 
all  the  neighbors  said  't  was  no  harm,  but  the 
rather  a  safe  riddance  o'  mischief  As  to  the 
manner  of  that  fight,  I  do  remember  it  well, 
having  oft  with  mine  own  ears  heard  him,  our 
neighbor,  relate  the  same.  A  shrewd  tussle  it 
was,  he  did  use  to  say,  an'  betwixt  two  that  were 
o'envell  matched  to  make  one  the  easy  master; 

and  so  a-saying  would  he  shake  head  right  so- 
berly thereupon,  at  mere  after  calling  o't  to  mind. 
'T  was  the  red  man  that  struck  first  blow,  as  I 
said  afore.  "  Mayhap  the  gallows  will  be  high 
enow.  Sir  Jack,  for  even  your  top  notions,"  quoth 
Master  Godkyn,  and,  hearing  this  spoken,  lo ! 
that  other  gave  a  very  brutish,  fierce  cry,  and 
flinging  behind  him  his  great  bow  (which  same 
was  no  ready  weapon  in  such  sudden  encounter), 
he  made  at  Master  Godkyn  with  his  tomahawk. 
Howsoever,  that  stroke,  for  all  it  did  start  the 
blood  (and  that  from  no  mere  skin-scratch, 
neither),  fell  somewhat  short,  belike, — and  e'en 
whilst  he  raised  the  murtherous  thing  aloft  for 
another  down-come,  why,  then  did  Master  God- 
kyn with  a  swift  cunning  dash  o'  the  fist,  that  he 
had  learnt  long  agone  when  a  young  sporting 
lad  in  England,  strike  it  clean  out  of  his  hand. 
So  there  was  Jack  o'  the  Feather  fairly  disarmed ; 
but  yet,  in  sooth,  the  worst  o't  was  still  to  come 
for  Master  Godk)-n ;  for  when  he  would  essay  to 
draw  his  good  knife  from  his  belt,  why,  what  doth 
that  savage  but  clip  him  on  a  sudden  in  's  arms 
as  who  would  then  and  there  squeeze  very  heart 
and  life  out  of  his  body.  He  was  a  strong  proper 
man  as  the  most,  was  Master  Godkyn,  and  stoutly 
builded,  to  give  blow  or  withstand,  but  a  many 
a  time  have  I  heard  him  say  how  on  the  first 
amaze  of  this  besetment  he  was  but  as  little  chick 
in  the  coil  of  a  black  whip-snake.  Truly  this 
weakness  did  in  a  moment  pass — for  the  fear 
of  a  sudden  death  maketh  strong — and  even  as 
Master  Godkyn  did  feel  his  breath  going  from 
him  he  made  shift  to  catcli  it  again.  Whereupon 
'gan  the  struggle  in  good  earnest.  For  that  Indian, 
his  arms  were  as  iron  hard,  and  cruel  strong,  and 
his  ribs  were  as  brass ;  yet  was  the  white  man 
he  had  thus  laid  hold  on,  not  one  to  stand  still 
an'  be  crushed  in  any  such  devil's-trap.  There 
they  had  it,  for  sure,  this  way,  that,  an'  t'  other, 
—  a-straining  and  a-tugging  for  dear  life  'gainst 
foul  death.  'T  was  a  right  curious  turn  o'  the 
mind  (so  Master  Godkyn  said  afterward),  and 
such  as  the  like  of  had  ne'er  before  come  unto 
him,  but  't  was  sure-enough  truth,  no  less,  that 
he  did  remember  and  see  plain,  'fore  his  senses 
in  a  moment,  nay,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  that 
time,  all  things  he  had  ever  done  and  said  of  good 
or  ill,  life-long.  Also  it  came  to  him  in  a  sharp, 
raging  way,  as  't  were  a  dagger  struck  through 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


the  heart,  how  many  perils  he  had  'scapen,  by 
land  and  sea,  to  fall  now,  mayhap,  by  such  base 
means  at  last.  So  ran  this  thought  within  him, 
lightning-quick  and  furious :  What !  was  't  for 
this  he  did  over-live  the  sweating-sickness  in 
London  Town,  and  the  fight  w  ith  pirates  a-com- 
ing  'cross  the  ocean 
( wherein  so  many 
bold  fellows  were 
bloodily  cut  down), 
and  the  wreck  of  the 
"Sea-Venture"  (for 
he  was  one  o'  that 
company),  an'  all 
the  starving-time  at 
Jamestown  —  with 
many  other  notable 
dangers,  past  men- 
tion —  to  die  not 
Christianly  in  his 
bed  at  last,  but  in 
sudden  unbeknown 
fight  with  a  red  In- 
dian knave,  and  he 
not  even  accounted 
anybody  'mongst  his 
own  people.  Then 
that  was  a  bitter- 
black  thought,  for- 
sooth, but  yet,  may- 
be, the  saving  o'  his 
life,  no  less ;  for  e'en 
in  the  swift  passing 
rage  thereof,  he  be- 
thought him  of  a 
wrestling  trick  well- 
nigh  forgot  in  's 
mind  that  might 
avail  him  at  this 
pinch.  Now,  by  this 
trick  it  was  that  he 
tripped  up  and  over- 
threw his  adversary, 
who,  falling  right 
heavily  undermost  upon  the  stony  highway,  did 
perforce  somewhat  loosen  that  fell  grip ;  and  so 
it  came  to  pass  that  Master  Godkyn  did  make 
out  at  last  to  draw  his  knife,  and  then,  as  Jack 
o'  the  Feather  started  up  again  (like  any  fierce 
beast  that 's  brought  to  its  last  bay),  why,  then 
Vol.  XVII.— 15. 

did  Master  Godkyn,  for  defending  of  his  own  life, 
stab  him  to  the  very  heart  so  that  he  fell  back 
an'  died. 

So  that  was  the  end  of  that  encounter.  And 
all  the  neighbors  said  't  was  no  harm,  but  the 
rather  a  safe  riddance  o'  mischief.    And  the  dead 


SOMETIMES     HE    BORE    ME    ON     HIS     BACK     TilK 


body  was  given  o'er  to  two  of  his  kin,  who  did 
hap  to  come  a-seeking  him,  and  bore  it  back 
with  them  that  way  they  came — nor  did  any 
man  at  that  time  call  Master  Godkyn  to  account 
for  the  same;  only  it  seemeth  to  me  always  a 
fearsome  thing  to  have  man's  blood  on  one's 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


hands;  neither  was  I  anywise  astonished  at 
Simon's  taking  of  the  news  when  my  father  told 
it  him.  Was  't  not  his  natural  bom  father,  in 
sooth,  flesh  o'  his  flesh,  blood  o'  his  blood — de- 
spite of  opposing  misbehavior  ?  So  it  seemed  as 
naught  strange  to  me,  as  to  the  rest,  that  he  hid 
himself  away  from  sight  of  all,  that  day  of  hear- 
ing it,  and  for  many  days  afterward  had  few 
words  to  speak  to  anybody. 

Well,  well !  a  right  wonderful  thing  is  nature, 
truly,  and  it  taketh  its  own  way  despite  of  law 
and  gospel  and  all  contrary  custom.  Now, 
whether  't  was  the  kilUng  o'  his  father  at  that 
time,  or  whether  the  natural  turn  o'  his  mind  to 
work  darksomely  upon  itself,  that  did  bring 
round  such  change  in  Simon,  God  knoweth  1 
but  a  change  there  was,  for  certain.  He  had 
ne'er  been  given  to  chatter  overmuch,  but  't  was 
fairly  as  one  tongue-tied  he  did  now  appear. 
As  for  the  daily  tasks,  them  did  he  do  as  afore- 
time, only  in  a  sullen  and  grievous  way,  like  to 
any  driven  slave;  yet  he  sported  no  more  at  all, 
the  rather  choosing  that  time  to  himself  for  lone- 
somely  walking  abroad  or  brooding  in  some 
corner  apart.  Alackaday  !  The  poor  lad  !  my 
heart  doth  ache  for  him  now.  'T  was  a  strange 
case  to  be  so  situate  betwixt  one's  natural  race 
and  kindred  and  such  as  were  bounden  enemies 
(and  that  past  control  of  will)  'gainst  them  and 
theirs  forever.  Aye,  aye;  for  all  I  was  but  a 
child  then,  and  too  little  to  sense  aright  the  ins 
and  outs  thereof,  it  hath  come  to  me  since,  I 
trow;  an'  small  wonder  't  is  that  the  blackness 
of  his  eyes  i'  those  days  was  as  night  without 
moon  or  star. 

Now,  as  to  his  own  Indian  race  and  nation,  he 
had  ne'er  aforetime  been  curious  in  asking  of 
questions,  for  all  ever  keenly  a-listening  to  aught 
about  them  spoken.  Neither  did  he  inquire 
anything  by  word  of  mouth  in  these  days 
whereof  I  tell,  only  he  would  be  now  always 
secretly  spelling  o'er  in  my  father's  books  what 
was  there  writ  tlown  concerning  the  same,  by 
Captain  John  Smith  and  others.  Also  many  's 
the  time  I  did  see  him  pick  up  an  Indian  arrow- 
head from  the  ground  (for  there  were  many 
thereabout  scattered)  and  so  stand  gazing  upon 
it,  goodness  knoweth  how  long  by  the  clock  I  as 
thinking  strange  thoughts  inside  of  him,  may- 
hap, and  clean  forgetting  all  else  in  this  world. 

Also,  would  he  oft  be  walking  solitarily  and  spy- 
ing 'mongst  some  two  or  three  ancient  ruined 
wigwams  left  long  empty  i'  the  wood  hard  by ; 
yet,  I  promise  you,  if  our  lads  durst  ever  any- 
wise plague  him  concerning  this  so  strange  be- 
havior he  was  as  tow  to  fire.  So  it  passed,  day 
in  and  out,  weeks  and  months  one  after  t'  other, 
till  the  summer  season  o'  that  year  was  gone 
and  autumn  did  come  round. 

Now,  concerning  the  very  dreadful  thing  that 
then  befell  in  Virginia,  '.t  was  even  as  a  thunder- 
bolt out  of  a  fair  even  sky,  with  not  the  merest 
little  small  cloud  for  a  warning  aforetime.  Nay, 
whoever  would  in  reason  have  foredreamt  it  or 
supposed  it  as  anywise  possible,  e'en  of  that  most 
subtle,  secret,  and  murtherous  Indian  people, 
after  so  long  peace  and  friendly  commingling 
together !  Surely  never  in  this  world  was  so 
cruel  and  barbarous  assault  so  unprovoken ;  for 
as  to  the  killing  of  Jack  o'  the  Feather,  which 
same  mishap,  't  was  afterward  told,  had  been 
made  a  handle  of  by  the  King  Opechancanough 
in  stirring  up  of  wrath  'gainst  the  English  —  as 
to  that,  but  little  store  did  the  red  people  truly 
set  by  him,  I  do  reckon,  nor  was  any  white  man 
but  the  one  (being  Master  Godkyn  himself)  con- 
cerned in  that  business.  Neither  could  those 
Indians  anywise  justly  complain  how  the  whites 
had  them  in  a  manner  dispossest,  seeing  that 
themselves  had  willingly  consented  thereto. 
Was 't  they,  or  their  forefathers,  that  did  'stablish 
boundaries,  dig  foundations,  or  make  any  proper 
decent  settlements  ?  Nay,  not  so ;  nor  doth 
he  set  overmuch  value  on  God's  earth,  I  'm 
thinking,  who  will  sell  the  same  to  first-comer 
for  a  string  o'  beads  or  gaudy  garment.  A  full 
ten  year  and  more  had  peace  continued,  with 
kindness  and  good  neighboring  on  both  sides. 
And  many  of  the  Indians  had  removed  'way  oflf 
to  northward  into  the  great  woods  on  York 
River,  but  )-et  a  manv  more  were  still  tarrying 
amongst  us,  aye,  not  a  few  in  fair  houses  builded 
for  them,  English  fashion,  by  the  settlers.  More- 
over, not  a  few,  again,  had  been  taken  in,  even  as 
Simon,  by  the  whites  as  children  or  dear  favored 
servants ;  and  thus,  lo  and  behold !  did  it  come 
to  pass  that  these  vipers  for  the  most  part,  being 
warmed  and  filled,  did  in  very  natural  poisonous 
malice  strike  the  hand  that  fed  them,  or  the 
rather  as  under-sappers  and  miners  of  the  walls 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


that  sheltered  them  seek  to  fetch  all  down — 
e'en  tho'  to  their  own  crushing  destruction — by 
the  fell  blow  of  this  bloody  vengeance.  So  was 
the  foul  plot  laid  in  secret  for  that  massacre,  the 
dreadfulest  thing  that  did  ever  hap  in  all  Vir- 
ginia, and  such  as  I  pray  God  will  never  be 
again — and  of  it,  as  I  said  before,  was  no 
littlest  warning  given.  There  be  sometimes 
signs  an'  signals  in  nature  foretelling  such  ca- 
lamity, as  have  oftentimes  been  proven.  Yea, 
a-many  a  one  have  I  myself  taken  note  of  for 
lesser  trouble  than  that.  Howsoever,  for  all 
our  dairy-wench,  Dolly  Shaw,  would  be  telhng 
afterward  about  a  death-watch  ticking  in  her 
ear  nine  nights  a-running,  and  a  bloody  red 
sunrise  on  the  Friday  mom  next  afore  that 
woful  Christmas  day — why,  it  was  all  too  late, 
as  my  mother  said,  for  any  such  talk  then. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  one  even  in  December 
month,  that  I  did  follow  Simon  on  one  of  his 
lonesome  goings  unto  those  old  crumbling  wig- 
wams i'  the  woods,  whereof  I  have  told.  'T  was 
Httle  note  he  had  taken  of  me  an'  my  plays 
for  many  a  long  day,  sure  enough,  but  I  was 
a- wearying  of  mine  own  company  that  time,  with 
Francis  an'  Dick  gone  a-hunting  and  my  mother 
and  all  the  maids  too  busy  o'er  house  matters  to 
speak  me  even  a  word.  So  running  after  Simon 
(afar  off,  yet  ever  keeping  him  in  sight)  I  did  go 
along  into  the  dark,  thick  forest ;  yet  when  he 
reached  that  place  I  hardly  durst  fetch  up  unto 
him,  but  stopped  and  hid  me  behind  a  little 
cedar  bush  hard  by  the  path  to  screw  up  my 
courage.  And  behold !  whiles  I  was  standing 
there  a-peeping  thro',  what  did  I  see  but  a  very 
tall  and  fierce-appearing  Indian  man  come  out 
o'  the  nighest  wigwam  and  fall  a-talking  with 

So  there  stood  they,  face  to  face;  and  there 
stood  1  —  a-looking  frightedly — 'most  ready  to 
run  back  that  way  I  'd  come,  only  I  durst  not, 
any  more  than  go  on.  Ne'er  a  word  that  they 
said  could  I  hear,  but  I  saw  that  the  tall  Indian 
spake  as  't  were  earnestly,  and  with  right  fierce, 
uncouth  gestures  did  enforce  the  same.  Also  I 
saw  that,  at  the  first  of  it,  Simon  did  shake  head 
an'  turn  away — as  who  mayhap  doth  say,  "No, 
no,  no ! "  to  somewhat  or  other  and  will  scarce 
hearken  thereto.  Whereupon  the  man,  waxing 
still  more  vehement,  stamped  upon  the  ground 

and  pointed  fiercely  with  's  long  cruel-shapen 
fingers,  this  way,  that,  an' t'  other  —  till  presenUy 
I,  making  sure  that  he  pointed  once  straight  at 
me,  fell  down  for  very  terror  where  I  stood.  So 
I  lay  a-quaking.  And  after  a  while  (goodness 
knoweth  how  long !  but  it  did  seem  monstrous 
long  to  me)  came  Simon  himself,  a-running 
back, —  yet  heavily  and  stumbling  as  one  half- 
blind, —  and  so  espied  me  there. 

Then  he  stood  as  one  amazed,  looking  first 
at  me,  then  back  o'er  his  shoulder  fearsomely ; 
but  I  perceived  that  the  strange  Indian  had 
turned  away,  making  off  swiftly  into  the  wood. 
And  Simon  cried  out  to  me,  "  Gillian !  Gillian ! 
didst  thou  hear  what  he  said  ?  Didst  hear  ?  " 
And  I  said  truly,  nay ;  but  that  I  saw  the  man. 
Whereupon  I  fell  a-crying  for  very  fear  of  I 
knew  not  what.  And  I  said,  "  Oh,  Simon ! 
what  hast  thou  to  do  with  the  dreadful  dark 
man  ?  Oh,  prythee  take  me  home,  Simon,  lest 
he  should  come  again!"  For  truly  I  was 
frighted  'most  to  death  at  the  very  thought  o' 
that,  and  I  held  him  tight,  a-weeping.  But  he 
cried  out  loud,  vehemently,  "  No !  no  I  he  will 
not  come.  He  shall  not  hurt  thee !  He  shall 
not !  he  shall  not !  They  shall  ne'er  hurt  thee 
in  this  world,  my  little  sister  Gilhan  !  " 

So  with  that  he  comforted  me,  saying  those 
same  words  o'er  and  o'er  again,  "  Gilhan  !  Gil- 
lian !  my  little  sister,  Gillian !  "  And  so  drying 
my  tears  right  kindly,  as  ni}'  brother  might,  he 
did  carry  me  home  (when  that  I  had  ceased  to 
weep)  afore  him  in  his  arms.  But  he  straightly 
charged  me  to  tell  nobody  that  which  I  had  seen ; 
and  I,  knowing  naught  of  the  harm  thereof,  did 
promise  to  keep  it  secret. 

Now,  that  was  nigh  a  week  before  Christmas, 
which  same  was  the  secretly  appointed  time. 
Never  before  had  his  mood  been  so  black,  I 
trow,  e'en  at  worst.  'T  was  as  if  an  ill  disease 
had  him  fast,  for  truly  the  flesh  wasted  off"  his 
bones  from  one  day  to  next,  and  scarce  a  mor- 
sel of  victual  would  he  be  eating.  I  do  think 
that  e'en  my  mother  had  more  pitied  than 
blamed  him  that  while,  but  for  his  darksome 
scowls  and  downcast  shunning  o'  the  looks  of  us 
all.  But  as  it  was,  in  sooth,  she  cried,  "  He 
surely  hath  a  devil !  Alackaday  !  "  quoth  she, 
"  that  such  an  one,  so  possest  in  evil,  did  ever 
come  into  this  house !  "     Aye,  even  m\'  father 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 

turned  'gainst  him  then,  for  saith  he,  "  Is  this 
how  he  doth  repay  my  kindness  to  him,  hfe-long  ! 
'T  is  an  ill-conditioned  lad,"  quoth  he,  "  an'  my 
wife  hath  been  wiser  than  I,  all  along,  in  this 
matter.  Let  none  either  chide  or  coax,  but  all 
leave  him  alone  in  his  foul  sulking  humor  till 
I  find  place  for  him  otherwhere  than  in  my 

So  by  that  command  did  all  abide.  In  sooth, 
I  do  reckon,  I  was  the  only  one  of  all  i'  the 
house  that  did  anywise  yearn  to  the  contrary. 
But  I  durst  not  bespeak  Simon  a  word,  and  thus 
was  he  left  to  his  own  thoughts  an'  devices  till 
the  very  day  came  round. 

I  mind  well  that  Christmas  eve,  an'  for  the 
matter  o'  that  there  be  few  a-living  in  this  Vir- 
ginia, from  then  till  now,  who  have  forgot  the 
same,  I  do  reck.  Such  a  baking  and  brewing, 
such  roasting  and  boiling,  such  a  garnishing  an' 
making  ready  for  next  day's  feast,  as  there  was 
with  us,  to  be  sure  '  for  howsoever  times  might 
pinch  in  common,  my  father  and  mother  needs 
must  be  making  shift  to  keep  Christmas  holi- 
day i'  the  good  old  English  fashion  of  their 
young  days.  I  mind  how  we  had  a  brave  pasty 
that  day  for  dinner,  in  foretaste  o'  the  morrow, 
and  when  we  sat  down  at  table,  at  about  one 
o'  the  clock,  all  were  there  a'ready  to  eat  but 
Simon.  Whereupon  my  father  saith,  "  Where 
is  Master  Doleful  Dumps,  I  pray  ?  "  And  my 
mother  cried,  "  Dear  heart,  I  do  neither  know 
nor  care  1  "  But  Dolly  Shaw,  who  stood  behind 
her  chair,  spake  up,  saWng,  "  He  is  in  the  top 
loft  o'  the  house,  where  he  hath  e'en  been  well- 
nigh  all  day,  a-sulking."  Then  Dickon  would 
be  asking  (for  he  had  e'er  a  rare  sweet  humor, 
had  our  Dick),  '•  Shall  I  run  tell  him  o'  the 
pasty  ?  "  Howsoever,  the  master  made  answer. 
No.  "  Let  him  wait  till  he  be  hungry,"  quoth 
he,  "  for  I  warrant  empty  stomach  needs  no 
coaxing.  He  will  be  high  in  place  tho'  low  in 
spirit,  it  doth  seem.     Fetch  him  not  down." 

So  then  all  did  go  on  to  eat  without  more  ado  ; 
but,  for  mine  own  part,  the  victual  seemed  to 
go  against  me  that  day. 

Now,  when  that  the  meal  was  o'er,  some  went 
one  way,  some  another,  about  their  several  mat- 
ters; yet  I  could  do  naught  in  pleasure  for  think- 
ing of  Simon,  'way  up  yonder,  so  lonesome  and 
without  cheer.     In  faith,  I  was  alwavs  a  loving 

little  lass,  an'  tender-true  to  them  that  had 
showed  me  kindness ;  nor  could  I  then  deck  my 
doll  in  holiday  fashion,  nor  look  on  at  the  maids 
i'  the  kitchen,  nor  sport  with  my  tame  deer,  nor 
anywise  content  me  with  this  trouble  on  my 
mind.  Wherefore,  as  hour  after  hour  did  pass, 
I  bethought  me  how  thirsty  he  must  be  by  that 
time.  'T  was  not  of  hunger  I  would  be  think- 
ing, for  truly  he  seemed  to  have  forgot  the  feel 
o'  that  in  those  days ;  but  all  must  surely  drink 
to  live.  'T  was  a  green  Christmas,  that  (and 
such  as  old  folk  say  maketh  a  fat  graveyard), 
and  mighty  warm  for  the  season ;  and  I  had 
noted  well,  at  time  of  breakfast  that  morn,  how 
Simon,  eating  no  single  mouthful,  drank  scarce 
one  cup  o'  milk.  Moreover,  I  also  bethought 
me  how  folk  would  oft  be  talking  of  peace  an' 
good  will  at  Christmas-tide,  even  as  the  Bible 
telleth  that  angels  sang  unto  those  shepherds 
a-listening  on  the  hill-top  ;  yet,  in  sooth,  that 
saying  did  then  appear  but  an  idle  mock  to  me, 
and  no  peace  in  mine  heart  at  all,  with  Simon 
left  out  a-cold.  And  so  I  said  within  myself, 
"  'T  is  surely  no  harm  nor  naughty  disobedience, 
nor  will  my  father  'count  it  any  such,  if  I  carry 
him  a  drink."  Then  I  took  from  the  mantel- 
shelf mine  own  silver  cup,  that  my  grandmother 
Griffin  had  sent  unto  me  for  a  christening  gift, 
all  the  way  from  England,  and  fetched  it  brim- 
ming full  o'  fresh  fair  water  from  the  spring, 
unseen  by  anybody.  And  I  went  with  it  in  my 
two  hands  so  softly  (for  fear  of  spilling)  up  the 
big  stair  an'  the  little  steep  stair  into  the  great 
loft  room. 

Now,  't  was  the  first  time  that  I  did  ever  go 
alone,  of  mine  own  accord,  into  that  room,  for 
it  had  ever  seemed  to  me  a  strange  and  awe- 
some place,  mayhap  resembling  some  such  as 
we  hear  tell  of  in  old  enchanted  houses  or  the 
like.  Not  that  our  house  had  been  builded 
long,  or  was  aught  like  a  grand  big  castle. 
Nay  I  But  in  this  top  room  that  spread  all  o'er 
the  bigness  o't,  it  was  ever  half  dark  as  twilight, 
having  only  one  litde  small  window  for  the 
whole,  and  the  great  beams  o'  the  roof  so  heav- 
ily sloping  down,  with  cobwebs  hanging  there- 
from. Then  a-many  strange  things  were  there 
stored  away  for  safe-keeping  that  no  place  might 
be  found  for  i'  the  house  below,  such  as  the 
skins  of  divers  beasts,  tanned  with  the  fur  on, 


THERE    THEV     HAI)     IT,     FOR    SURE,     THIS    WAY,     THAT,     AN*     t'    OTHEli." 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


as  they  had  been  killed  from  time  to  time,  and 
hanged  up  for  some-day  use ;  or  weapons  of 
warfare,  as  swords,  pikes,  bludgeons,  and  so  on, 
laid  by  'gainst  troublous  times.  Also,  was  there 
a  great  bedstead  that  my  mother  would  be 
keeping  for  the  fitting  of  a  guest-chamber  after- 
while,  with  the  tall  carven  posts  bewrapt  in  white 
linen  an'  looking  like  any  four  ghosts  i'  their 
shrouds;  with  ancient  storage-chests,  broken 
tables,  chairs,  and  what  not  of  relics  from  the 
Old  World,  mingled  together  disorderly  with 
trophies  of  the  New. 

Now,  at  first  I  saw  nothing  at  all  of  Simon, 
and  'gan  to  think  he  was  there  no  longer,  when 
presently  I  did  espy  him.  There  was  he,  sure 
enough,  in  a  far  dim  corner,  a-sitting  dolefully, 
as  't  were,  all  huddled  up  on  one  o'  the  big  chests. 
Only,  his  face  and  hands  1  could  not  see,  for  they 
were  hid  in  a  wolfskin  there  hanging  from  a 
beam  o'erhead,  even  as  a  child  doth  cling  and 
hide  face  in  his  mother's  skirt,  ma3hap  —  as  I 
bethought  me  then  and  afterward.  So  I  waited 
a  litde  space,  but  yet  he  did  not  look  up  nor  sdr ; 
and  then  I  went  softly  'cross  the  floor,  till  being 
come  nigh  I  did  hold  up  the  cup  an'  say,  "  Simon, 
I  have  fetched  thee  a  drink !  "  Then  he  let  go 
of  the  wolfskin  and  looked  up,  a-shuddering  all 
o'er  his  body  and  appearing,  mayhap,  like  one 
on  a  sudden  half  waken  from  a  very  dark,  horrid 
dream,  whereby  he  is  still  holden  an'  distrest, 
not  knowing  false  from  true.  Yet  never  a  word 
he  spake ;  only  stared  so  strangely  at  me  as  I 
stood.  Whereupon  I  said  again, —  for  all  a  bit 
quaking  at  the  woful  blackness  o'  his  gaze, — 
"  Art  thou  not  thirsty,  Simon  ?  Dost  thou  not 
know  't  is  Christmas-tide  ?  An'  wilt  thou  not 
drink  this  fair  water  in  mine  own  silver  cup  — 
for  peace  an'  good  will  ?  " 

Still  he  looked  at  me  in  a  wild  way,  and  all 
round  the  room,  shaking  like  as  if  I  had  struck 
him  with  those  words.  Yet  did  he  not  take  the 
water ;  and  all  o'  the  instant,  e'en  as  I  so  stood 
reaching  it  out  unto  him  —  lo  !  he  gave  a  very 
dreadful  sharp  cry,  like  somewhat  had  broke 
within  him,  and  flung  him  face  down  on  the 
floor  betwi.xt  us. 

Now,  at  that  I  stood  frighted  and  trembling, 
till  the  water  was  spilled  and  the  cup  nigh 
fell  from  my  hand.  And  naught  durst  I  say,  or 
could,  but  "  Simon  I  Simon!  "  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

.\nd  to  that  he  made  no  answer,  only  so  a-lying 
i'  the  dust  did  strike  on  the  floor  with  his  hand  — 
most  dreadfully  a-weeping  and  moaning,  for 
some  space ;  till  presently  he,  looking  up,  said 
unto  me,  "  Call  the  master  1  " 

Then  I  went  down,  as  fast  as  I  might  for  legs 
a-trembling  underneath  me,  and  called  my  father, 
who  did  come  up  hastily  and  wondering  at  that 
summons.  .\lso  my  mother  came  a-running 
behind,  and  the  maids  from  their  cookery,  and 
the  lads  from  cleaning  of  their  guns  i'  the  hall  — 
all  in  haste  and  amazedly  to  see  what  was  toward 
now.  And  when  my  father  was  come  into  the 
room  (for  those  others  did  but  listen  on  the 
stair)  there  was  Simon,  a-standing  straight  up, 
\et  shaking  as  who  doth  face  death. 

Then,  'fore  ever  my  father  might  ask  e'en. 
How  's  this  ?  he  cried  out  loud,  saying,  "  There 
is  yet  time !  There  is  yet  time !  Strike  me  dead 
when  I  have  told  it,"  crieth  he,  "  but  listen  to  me 
first ! "  Then  saith  he  on,  "  They  have  whetted 
their  knives.  They  have  sharpened  their  toma- 
hawks—  for  blood,  blood,  blood,  this  night! 
Opechancanough,  the  king,  hath  planned  it  — 
all  the  red  men  have  sworn  together.  This 
night  by  darkfall  will  the  kiUing  begin  all  o'er 
Virginia  —  the  killing  o'  the  white  people  !  " 

And  he,  throwing  himself  down  on  's  knees 
afore  my  father,  said  in  a  wild  way,  "  Master  I 
Master !  They  did  promise  me  not  to  slay  thee, 
or  Gillian,  or  Dick.  I  did  vow  at  first  to  tell, 
'less  they  promised  me  that.  Yet  have  I  seen  it 
'fore  mine  eyes,  day  an'  night  —  the  blood  and 
the  killing  —  and  the  crying  was  in  mine  ears. 
Then  Gillian  came  with  the  water — and  now  I 
prythee  strike  me  dead,  for  I  am  false  to  both 
sides  !  I  am  neither  white  nor  red  —  an'  not 
anywise  worth  to  live  ! " 

Now,  that  hearing,  my  mother  and  the  maids 
cried  out  for  fear,  "  God  ha'  mercy !  What 
will  become  of  us  !  "  and  there  came  a  white- 
ness even  o'er  my  father's  face,  for  't  was  a  fear- 
some dreadful  thing  to  think  of,  an'  the  sun  nigh 
going  down  —  as  from  the  little  window  we 
might  see.  Howsoever,  he  laid  not  his  hand 
on  the  lad,  but,  after  that  he  had  bidden  the 
woman  take  heart  o'  grace,  he  said  unto  him, 
'•  Up,  boy,  an'  get  thee  down  with  me.  Thou 
hast  been  bad  enow,  God  knoweth  ;  —  but  't  is 
our  part  to  save,  an'  not  to  kill,  this  night.     I 


THE    WHITE    AND    THE    RED. 


wll  give  thee  chance  a  plenty,  by  St.  George ! 
to  prove  thee  yet  worthy  hving." 

'T  was  well  we  had  good  horses  and  strong  — 
aye,  an'  well-fed  —  in  our  stable,  for  't  was  both 
fast  and  far  they  needs  must  go  that  even. 
Good  twenty  miles  were  we  from  Jamestown, 
as  the  crow  flieth ;  eighteen  miles  the  way  lay 
to  Wyanoke  on  one  hand,  nineteen  or  so  was  it 
to  Falling  Creek  on  t'  other  —  through  wood 
and  swamp,  with  scarce  road  or  track  at  all.  As 
for  my  father,  he  must  needs  stay  for  our  defense 
at  home ;  but  on  the  three  fleetest  horses  the 
three  lads  did  go  to  warn  and  save  such  as 
might  be.  I  mind  how  my  mother  wept  over 
an'  kissed  Francis  and  Dickon  as  't  were  death- 
parting  to  see  them  go  —  and  sooth,  poor  soull 
I  reckon  she  guessed  full  well  how  't  would  be 
with  them  both,  if  they  made  not  good  speed  ere 
sundown.  But  unto  Simon  't  was  only  my  father 
that  said  good-bye,  when  he  started  the  James- 
town way,  on  wild  Blackamoor  a-riding.  "  Now, 
if  thou  wouldst  show  human  good  inside  thee," 
saith  he,  "  I  charge  thee  ride  thy  best."  And 
Simon's  face  was  as  any  stone  set  when  he  heard 
that  word  and  started  forth. 

Well,  well !  't  is  over  an'  done,  bless  Heaven ! 
this  many  a  year  agone,  and  may  we  never 
see  the  like  of  such  a  Christmas  e'er  again  in 
Virginia,  I  do  pray !  Good  speed  the  three 
lads  made  in  their  several  ways.  'T  was  Simon 
that  did  first  win  to  the  end  o'  his,  for  all  it  was 
the  longest.  So  was  Jamestown  saved,  and  so 
likewise  did  those  two  other  settlements  'scape 
from  fire  and  bloody  slaughter.  I  promise  you, 
those  murtherous  yelling  knaves  that  came 
'gainst  our  house  that  night  did  find  my  father 
ready  with  warmer  welcome  than  they  looked 
for.  Yet  alas  and  alas  for  them  who  had  no 
such  a  warning  as  ours  !  and  alas  for  all  Virginia 
that  bitter,  cruel  night !  Right  bloodily  the  white 
people  wrought  vengeance  for  't  in  aftertime. 
Aye,  aye ;  't  was  said  they  did  hunt  the  Indians 
like  wild  beasts,  in  some  parts,  with  bloodhounds 

fetched  o'er  from  England  a  purpose  for  the  busi- 
ness ;  yet  it  brought  not  the  dead  ones  to  life 
again,  so  killed  in  sudden  horrid  massacre.  At 
Warrasqueake,  an'  Flower  de  Hundred,  and 
Martin's  Brandon,  and  Westover —  nay,  where 
not  elsewhere,  i'  faith,  save  the  three  places  that 
our  three  lads  did  save !  All  o'er  the  land,  to 
tell  truth,  was  foul  murther  done  ;  with  hundreds 
o'  dead  corpses  that  were  live  and  warm  at  sun- 
down left  a-cold  ere  daybreak,  and  that  unhu- 
manly  hacked  to  bits  in  a  manner  not  befitting 
civil  ears  to  hear  tell  of  I  trow  the  Christmas 
viands  were  but  funeral  meats  that  woful  time, 
an'  Christmas  hymns  of  cheer  all  turned  to 
dirges.  Yea,  lads  an'  lasses  here  a-listening,  ye 
may  e'en  thank  God  on  bended  knees  this  night 
for  that  these  days  be  not  like  them  agone ! 

Now  as  to  Totapotamoi,  or  Simon  Peter,  as  we 
always  called  him,  we  never  saw  that  lad  more, 
nor  heard  to  any  certainty  what  did  become 
o'  him.  My  father  found  the  horse  Blackamoor 
safe  enough  in  James  City  next  morn,  but  'mongst 
all  the  townsfolk  none  might  know  how  it  had 
gone  with  the  rider  when  his  message  was  told. 
And  whether  he  slew  himself  in  dark  despairing 
mood ;  or  was  slain  by  the  Indians  in  wrath  for 
his  betrayal  of  their  wickedness ;  or  whether 
he  doth  still  live  with  them,  his  natural  kin  and 
race,  in  the  great  woods  behind  the  mountains 
(as  was  long  aftertime  rumored  credibly  to  be 
the  way  o't),  God  knoweth,  not  I  ;  but  it  hath 
always  pleased  me  to  think  him  still  a-living,  an' 
that  some  day  'fore  I  died  I  might  set  eyes  on 
him  again. 

'T  was  many  a  long  day  ere  my  heart  would 
give  o'er  aching  at  the  thought  o'  him,  for  all 
the  folk  would  oft  be  a-telling  me  that  time  and 
after,  with  tears  and  kisses,  that  wdien  God  him- 
self did  put  into  my  head  to  fetch  the  Indian  lad 
that  water  in  my  silver  cup,  't  was  even  (in  the 
saving  o'  precious  lives)  as  the  Bible  saith  con- 
cerning them  that  so  a-doing  will  not  lose  their 
goodly  reward. 


:^inn^  nm^rf*- ,  -—  -  ■•*■* 

M.  ^ 

'  Out  JrptH  tlie  dark,  mystey^ous  North, 
li'ith  all  its  glatnour,  ez<ery  night 
Tingling  ivith  unforgotten  dreams, 
A  nd  every  day  Jlood-fnll  of  light." 



By  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 

How  weary  the  ice-river  grew 

In  those  dark  months  of  winter  night, 

And,  poised  upon  his  lofty  cliff, 

Longed,  longed,  for  other  worlds  and  flight. 

What  use  was  all  his  mighty  mold, 
With  none  to  wonder  and  admire 

The  light  and  color  that  he  held. 
The  moonstone  gleam,  the  opal  fire ! 

In  vain  the  mother  glacier  showed 
Pale  altars  answering  with  cold  rites 

The  flashes  of  eternal  stars, 

The  lances  of  the  northern  lights  ; 

A  band  of  sunbeams  came  that  way, 

Tempted,    and    touched,    and    lured   him 
on, — 

Wild  dreams  of  suns  and  southern  skies, — 
A  wrench,  a  plunge,  and  he  was  gone. 

With  swift  embrace  the  billows  swelled 
To  meet  him,  leaping  twice  and  thrice 

In  thunder,  ere  they  led  him  forth, 
King  of  a  world  of  floating  ice. 

Down,  down,  by  viewless  currents  drawn, 
His  huge  mass  underneath  the  sea. 

His  lofty  tops  enskyed,  he  moved 
Like  some  vast  fleet  in  majesty, — 

Out  from  the  dark,  mysterious  North, 

With  all  its  glamour,  every  night 
Tingling  with  unforgotten  dreams. 

And  every  day  flood-full  of  Hght. 

The  white  bear  slumbered  in  his  caves ; 

The  sunbeams  played  about  his  tips; 
Down,  down  he  bore  to  summer  seas 

And  crashed  his  way  through  sinking  ships. 

And  drowning  sailors  saw  on  high 
Those  icy  walls  where  surges  tossed, 

Descended  out  of  heaven,  a  pile 
Of  jeweled  splendor  fired  in  frost. 
Vol.  XVII.— i6.  129 

Lapis  and  turquois  pierced  with  light 
To  sapphire,  emerald  hollows  paled 

To  beryl,  topaz  burning  clear 
In  flames  of  chrysolite,  he  sailed. 

Down,  down  to  equatorial  seas 

Still  slowly  drifting, —  ah,  how  sweet 

These  soft  caresses  of  the  tide 
Far  in  the  depths  about  his  feet ! 

How  tenderly  this  morning  gleam 

Saluted  all  his  shining  spires. 
That  far  away  the  voyager  saw 

Tipped  with  the  blaze  of  ruby  fires ! 

How  ardently  through  warm  south  winds 
The  stresses  of  the  noontide  beat. 

Till  brooks  burst  forth  far  up  his  sides. 
Dissolving  in  a  fervent  heat. 

Now  plumed  with  streaming  smoke  he  went, 

Now  but  a  cloud  of  amethyst. 
The  ghost  of  glory,  weird  and  white. 

Now  wrapt  within  a  world  of  mist. 

The  sweet  and  treacherous  currents  still 
Around  his  weakening  bases  whirled, 

The  great  throat  of  the  hurricane 

Tremendous  blasts  against  him  hurled. 

Into  blue  air  he  crept ;  and  now 

Those    sunbeams     armed    with    javelins 
A  hostile  legion,  fierce  and  fain. 

And  all  his  awful  beauty  stormed. 

Ah,  for  that  dim  dark  home  once  more. 
Those  lances  of  the  northern  lights ! 

Then  his  tops  bent  them  to  their  fall. 

The  \\-ide  seas  rose  and  drowned  his  heights. 

And,  but  a  hulk  of  crumbling  ice. 
Within  the  deep  he  found  his  grave, 

Stranded  upon  a  hidden  key. 

And  washed  to  nothing  by  a  wave. 

(A  A'orse  Tale  Freely  Retold." ) 

By  Hjalmar  Hjorth  Boyesen. 

'HERE  was  once  a  cler- 
gyman who  lived  some- 
where in  the  interior 
mountain  valleys  of 
Norway.  .  He  had  five 
children,  all  of  whom 
were  dear  to  him  ;  but 
there  was  one  among 
them  who  was  nearer 
to  his  heart  than  all 
the  rest ;  and  that  was 
a  little  girl,  five  years 
old, named  Alvilda.  It 
may  have  been  because  she  was  the  youngest 
of  the  five ;  and  the  youngest,  especially  if  it 
is  a  girl,  is  always  likely  to  be  the  father's 
pet ;  or  it  may  have  been  because  she  was  a 
very  sweet  and  lovable  child  who  drew  all 
hearts  toward  her  as  the  sun  draws  the  flow- 
ers. When  her  mother  took  her  to  church  on 
Sunday  morning,  she  slipped  like  a  sunbeam 
among  the  somber  congregation,  and  all  faces 
brightened  and  a  softer  look  stole  into  the  eyes 
of  old  and  young,  when  she  passed  by.  In  her 
quaint  litUe  poke-bonnet  and  her  old-fashioned 
gown,  and  with  her  chubby  little  hands  folded 
over  her  mother's  h}'mn-book,  she  did,  indeed, 
look  so  bewitching  that  it  seemed  a  hardship 
not  to  stop  and  kiss  her.     "Bless  the  child," 

said  the  matrons,  with  heartfelt  unction,  when 
her  bright  smile  beamed  upon  them.  "  Bless 
her  dear  little  heart,"  ejaculated  the  young  girls 
admiringly,  as  they  knelt  down  in  the  road  to 
pat  Alvilda,  to  kiss  her,  or  only  to  touch  her 
in  passing. 

When  Alvilda's  fifth  birthday  came  it  hap- 
pened to  be  right  in  the  middle  of  the  berry 
season  ;  and  it  was  determined  to  celebrate  it 
by  a  berrying  party  to  which  a  dozen  children 
of  the  neighborhood  were  invited.  Fritz,  Al- 
vilda's fourteen-year-old  brother,  whom  she 
abjectly  admired,  magnanimously  undertook  the 
duty  of  sending  out  the  invitations  ;  and  he  con- 
sulted his  own  sovereign  fancy  in  inviting  those 
whom  he  liked  and  leaving  out  those  who  had 
had  the  misfortune  to  incur  his  displeasure.  It 
was  found  when  all  the  children  gathered  in 
front  of  the  parsonage,  about  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  that  it  was  indeed  Fritz's  party  rather 
than  Alvilda's.  But  Alvilda,  who  always  thought 
that  whatever  Fritz  did  was  well  done,  was 
perfectly  content.  She  liked  big  boys,  she  said, 
because  they  were  not  half  the  trouble  that 
little  girls  were.  First,  there  was  her  brother 
Charles,  twelve  years  old,  who  was  the  proud 
possessor  of  a  drum  which  had  been  presented 
to  him  at  Christmas ;  the  judge's  Albert,  thirteen 
years  old,  who  was,  to  be  sure,  a  great  tease,  and 

*  This  story,  or  rather  the  principal  incident  in  it,  I  heard  as  a  child,  and  have  an  impression  that  it  is  found 
in  one  of  the  Norwegian  school-readers.  I  do  not  remember  who  is  its  author,  if  I  ever  knew ;  but  it  is  known  to 
every  Norwegian  child,  and  is  a  kind  of  classic  of  the  Norse  nursery.  H.  H.  B. 



I".  I 

inclined  to  run  off  with  Fritz  on  all  sorts  of  mys- 
terious errands  ;  and  there  was  the  lawyer's  Fred- 
erick, who  never  spoke  to  girls  in  public  for 
fear  of  being  thought  frivolous.  Of  girls  there 
were  but  two  :  Sophy,  Alvilda's  fifteen-year-old 
sister,  who  was  almost  grown  up,  and  carried 
a  novel  in  her  pocket  which  she  read  at  odd 
moments  in  the  garden,  in  the  kitchen,  and,  most 
of  all,  in  the  woods ;  and  Albert's  sister,  Inge- 
borg,  who  had  so  many  delightful  secrets  which 
she  would  never  share  with  anybody  except  her 
bosom  friend  Sophy. 

Fritz,  who  had  provided  himself  with  a  tin 
trumpet,  marshaled  his  forces  in  the  yard,  and, 
having  aiTanged  them  in  rank  and  file  like  sol- 
diers, gave  the  command,  "  Forward,  march!  " 

The  girls  followed  as  best  they  could ;  the 
two  elder  ones  leading  Alvilda  by  the  hand  be- 
tween them.  The  father,  who  was  reluctant  to 
send  her  into  the  woods,  fearing  that  she  might 
become  overtired,  charged  them  not  to  leave  her 
for  a  moment,  and  to  see  that  she  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  rest  whene^■er  she  wished,  all  of  which 
Sophy  and  Ingeborg  promised. 

The  weather  was  glorious :  the  sun  was  just 
warm  enough  to  be  agreeable,  and  the  light 
clouds  which  sailed  over  the  blue  vault  of  the 
sky  seemed  to  be  having  a  happy  time  of  it. 
The  woods  which  grew  in  the  rugged  glens  on 
the  slope  of  the  mountain  were  filled  with  the 
fragrance  of  birch  and  pine  and  lilies  of  the  val- 
ley ;  and  the  brooks,  swollen  by  the  melting  ice 
of  the  glaciers,  danced  gayly  down  through  the 
ravines,  with  a  constant,  gurgling  rush  which  fell 
pleasantly  upon  the  ear. 

When  the  boys  left  the  highway  for  the  moun- 
tain-paths, they  broke  ranks,  and  each  scrambled 
up  over  the  rocks  as  best  he  could.  It  was  in 
vain  that  Fritz  blew  his  trumpet  and  Charles 
beat  his  drum.  To  climb  the  great  moss-grown 
rocks  was  too  inviring ;  and  to  stand  on  the  top 
of  them  and  shout  against  the  mountain  wall, 
which  gave  such  a  splendid  echo,  was  a  delight 
which  made  the  heart  leap  in  one's  bosom. 
Fritz  himself  was  not  proof  against  such  temp- 
tations, and  finding  his  commands  ignored,  he 
gracefully  surrendered  his  dignity  and  joined 
with  a  will  in  the  sports  of  the  rest.  There  were 
.  squirrels  to  be  stoned, —  not  a  very  nice  sport,  I 
admit, —  and  later  Fritz  was  ashamed  of  having 

engaged  in  it.  But  there  was  much  of  the 
savage  about  him  when  he  found  himself  in 
the  woods,  and  he  made  it  a  point  to  act  out 
the  character  and  suppress  whatever  gentle  emo- 
tions may  have  stirred  in  his  bosom.  Happily, 
the  squirrels  were  too  nimble  and  alert  for  the 
boys,  and  sat  chattering  at  them  from  the  upper 
branches  of  the  pines,  where  the  stones,  if  they 
reached  at  all,  went  wildly  amiss.  They  then 
found  a  toad,  and  would,  I  fear,  have  pitched  it 
heavenward  from  the  end  of  a  board,  if  the  girls 
with  Alvilda  had  not  caught  up  with  them ;  and 
the  latter,  in  consideration  of  its  being  her  birth- 
day, was  gallantly  permitted  to  save  the  con- 
demned miscreant.  For  these  boys,  whoever 
and  whatever  they  were,  were  never  themselves. 
They  were  by  turns  robbers,  pirates,  medieval 
knights,  Norse  vikings,  everv'thing  under  the  sun 
they  could  think  of,  except  nice,  respectable 
country  boys, — sons,  respectively,  of  a  la-ivyer,  a 
judge,  and  a  clergyman.  A  toad,  in  their  hands, 
became  a  captured  merchant,  or  an  enchanted 
princess,  or  a  thief  condemned  to  death,  as  the 
case  might  be.  But  it  never  by  any  possibihty 
remained  a  toad. 

When  they  had  climbed  for  an  hour,  Alvilda 
began  to  grow  tired ;  and  Fritz,  seeing  that  there 
was  no  likeHhood  of  reaching  the  enchanted  ter- 
ritory he  had  in  view,  without  carrying  her,  un- 
dertook with  the  aid  of  his  comrades  to  make 
a  litter  of  soft  pine  branches  which  was  quite 
comfortable  to  repose  upon.  The  boys  then 
took  turns  carrying  Alvilda,  addressing  her  all 
the  while  as  the  Princess  Kunigunde,  who  was 
betrothed  to  the  King  of  Andalusia,  and  was 
now  being  borne  by  her  faithful  knights  to  meet 
her  royal  adorer.  Alvilda  laughed  heartily  at 
their  absurd  deferential  speeches ;  and  her  clear 
voice  rang  through  the  woods,  startling  now  a 
coveyof  partridges  which  broke  with  a  frightened 
hum  through  the  underbrush,  now  a  hare  which 
scooted  away  with  long  leaps  over  the  heather, 
now  a  wild  duck  which,  with  a  great  flapping  of 
wings,  darted  away  in  a  straight  line  over  the 
water,  leaving  its  young  in  the  lurch  among  the 
sedges.  But,  although  she  found  it  ridiculous, 
Alvilda  enjoyed  immensely  being  a  princess  and 
having  her  devoted  knights  kiss  her  hand  and 
bend  their  knees  when  they  spoke  to  her. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  when  the  party 




reached  Fritz's  berrying-grounds,  which  he  had 
discovered  a  few  days  ago,  when  on  an  expedi- 
tion with  Albert  in  search  of  adventures.  It  was 
just  then  toward  the  end  of  the  strawberry  sea- 
son and  the  beginning  of  the  blueberry  season. 
The  sweet  wild  strawberry,  than  which  there  is 
nothing  more  delicious  under  the  sun,  betrayed 
itself  by  its  fragrance  under  the  heather,  and 
when  the  boys  found  an  open  patch,  about  the 
roots  of  a  tree,  where  the  berries  grew  in  big 
bunches,  they  shouted  aloud  and  danced  an 
Indian  war-dance  from  excess  of  joy,  before 
beginning  to  fill  their  mouths,  their  pails,  and 
their  baskets.  Fritz  and  Albert,  who  were  the 
champion  pickers,  had  soon  filled  the  tin  pails 
they  had  brought  with  them,  and  set  to  work 
with  great  dispatch  to  make  baskets  of  birch - 
bark  wherewith  to  carry  off  their  surplus.  There 
were  the  great  blueberry  fields  still  to  be  ravaged ; 
and  it  seemed  a  pity  not  to  pick  some  of  the 
fragrant  sweet-brier,  and  lilies  of  the  valley  that 
grew  so  abundantly  among  the  birches  and 
alders.  Sophy  and  Ingeborg  went  into  ecstasy 
over  the  nodding  clusters  of  pretty,  bell-shaped 
flowers  which,  in  Norway,  grow  wild  in  the 
woods,  and  they  picked  their  aprons  full,  again 
and  again,  emptying  them  into  one  of  Fritz's 
birch-bark  baskets.  Of  sweet-brier,  too,  and 
the  delicate  little  wood-stars  there  was  no  lack ; 
and  in  the  open  glades  they  found  some  belated 
violets  with  a  shy  little  ghost  of  a  fragrance  that 
stole  into  one's  nostrils  as  a  kind  thought  steals 
into  the  heart. 

Fritz  and  his  manly  comrades  protested,  of 
course,  against  this  "  tomfoolery  "  with  the  flow- 
ers; but  as  some  indulgence  must  be  granted 
to  the  foibles  of  girls,  they  consented  to  assist 
in  the  undignified  task.  A  big  heap  of  varie- 
gated color  —  pink,  white,  blue,  and  green  — 
was  piled  up  under  a  large,  wide-spreading 
pine,  where  Alvilda  sat,  like  a  fairy  queen,  glory- 
ing in  her  perishable  treasures.  It  was  then 
Fritz  lost  his  patience,  and  demanded  to  know 
whether  it  was  not  time  now  to  stop  this  non- 
sense and  go  in  quest  of  something  worth 
wearying  one's  limbs  for.  As  he  had  brought 
fishing  tackle  and  bait,  he  would  propose  a 
little  fishing  expedition  on  a  tarn,  close  by,  and 
if  the  girls  did  n't  care  to  accompany  him, 
he   would    go   alone    with    his   trusty   friends. 

Robin  Hood  and  the  Gray  Friar,  and  catch 
enough  to  provide  luncheon  for  the  whole 
army.  This  proposition  was  too  tempting  to  be 
resisted,  and  presently  all  the  boys  scampered 
away  through  the  underbrush,  leaving  the  three 
girls  under  the  pine  tree.  Sophy  spread  a  shawl 
upon  the  ground  for  Alvilda  to  lie  down  upon  ; 
and  herself  drew  a  favorite  novel  from  her  pocket, 
which  she  discussed  in  whispers  with  Ingeborg. 
There  were,  indeed,  the  most  dehcious  things  in 
this  book  :  dreadful,  black-hearted  villains,  with 
black  mustaches,  who  prowled  about  in  all  sorts 
of  disguises  and  lay  in  wait  for  unsuspecting 
innocence ;  splendid,  high-spirited  heroes,  with 
blonde  mustaches  and  nodding  white  plumes  on 
tlieir  helmets,  who  rescued  guileless  innocence 
from  the  wiles  of  the  villains,  and  subsequently 
manied  it  —  and  no  end  of  delightful  things 
besides.  Sophy  soon  lost  all  thought  of  her  sis- 
ter during  this  absorbing  discussion,  and  Alvilda, 
finding  herself  neglected,  pouted  a  little  and 
dozed  away  into  a  sweet  sleep. 

In  the  mean  while  the  boys  were  having  great 
fun  down  on  the  tarn ;  and  being  seized  with  a 
ravenous  appetite  as  their  usual  hour  for 
luncheon  passed,  they  resolved  to  have  a  little 
impromptu  feast  all  by  themselves  before  re- 
turning to  the  girls.  They  had  caught  a  dozen 
fine  trout  and  no  end  of  perch,  and  their  mouths 
watered  to  test  the  flavor  of  the  former  on  the 
spot.  They  accordingly  built  an  improvised 
stove  of  flat  stones,  made  a  fire  in  it,  split  the 
fish,  and  broiled  them  over  the  fire. 

The  trout  in  particular  proved  to  have  a  superb 
flavor,  and  Fritz,  as  a  generous  and  magnanimous 
freebooter,  was  dispensing  the  hospitality  of  the 
woods  with  a  royal  hand.  He  forgot  all  about  his 
dear  little  sister  in  whose  honor  he  was  feasting, 
and  he  forgot,  too,  that  he  had  promised  to  return 
in  half  an  hour  with  his  catch  of  fish.  Sophy 
and  Ingeborg,  having  exliausted  the  delights 
of  the  novel,  began  to  grow  hungr}',  and  -when  an 
hour  had  passed,  they  became  impatient  and,  at 
last,  angry.  They  could  hear  the  boys'  shouts  of 
laughter  in  the  distance,  and  they  began  to  sus- 
pect that  the  boys  were  lunching  without  them. 
Now  and  then  the  blare  of  Fritz's  trumpet  was 
vaguely  audible,  and  the  rumble  of  Charles's 

"  I  really  think,  Ingeborg,"  said  Sophy,  "  that 


those  wretched  boys  have  forgotten  all  about 

"  I  never  could  understand  why  boys  were 
created,"  observed  Ingeborg. 

'•  ^^'ell,  anyway,  I  am  hungry,"  ejaculated 

"  And  I  am  ravenous !  —  that  is,  I  am  not 
averse  to  something  to  eat,"  echoed  her  friend. 

"  Suppose  we  go  and  find  those  graceless 
scamps,"  suggested  Sophy. 

"  Very  well ;  but  what  shall  we  do  with  Al- 
vilda  ?  " 

Alvilda, —  to  be  sure, —  what  were  they  to  do 
with  her  ?  Sophy  felt  a  little  pang  of  guilt  as 
her  eyes  fell  upon  the  sweet,  chubby  face  of  her 
sleeping  sister. 

"  She  is  sleeping  so  soundly.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  waken  her,"  she  remarked  doubtfully. 
"  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  nothing  can  happen  to  her  here," 
said  Ingeborg;  "we  shall  only  be  gone  fifteen 
minutes,  you  know,  and  then  we  shall  be  back 
with  the  boys." 

'•  But  suppose  there  were  bears  about  here ; 
then  it  might  be  dangerous  to  leave  her !  " 

"  Yes,  and  suppose  there  were  lions  —  and  — 
crocodiles,"  laughed  Ingeborg. 

This  sally  disposed  of  Sophy's  scruples ;  and 
having  thrown  a  jacket  over  Alvilda's  feet  and 
kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  she  flung  one  arm 
about  her  friend's  waist  and  wandered  away 
with  her  in  the  direction  from  which  the  boys' 
laughter  was  heard.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
find  those  young  gentlemen,  for  they  were  en- 
gaged in  a  lively  wrangle  as  to  which  was  the 
rightful  possessor  of  the  surplus  quantity  of  fish 
which  they  could  not  devour.  Fritz  main- 
tained that  he,  as  the  chieftain,  had  a  just  claim 
to  the  proceeds  of  the  labor  of  his  vassals  and 
slaves,  and  the  vassals  and  slaves  loudly  rebelled 
and  declared  that  they  would  never  submit  to 
such  injustice;  whereupon  the  chieftain  mag- 
nanimously declared  that  he  would  renounce 
his  rights  and  surrender  the  booty  to  be  divided 
by  lot  among  his  men-at-arms.  It  was  at  this 
interesting  point  that  the  girls  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  and  the  gallant  freebooters  dropped 
their  quarrel  and  undertook,  somewhat  shame- 
facedly, to  wait  upon  their  fair  guests.  And  as 
the  fair  guests  had  rather  unfashionable  appe- 

tites, after  their  long  fast  and  vigorous  exercise, 
the  fifteen  minutes  became  half  an  hour  and 
the  half  hour  began  to  round  itself  out  to  a 
whole  hour,  before  their  consciences  smote  them 
and  they  thought  of  Alvilda  who  was  asleep 
under  the  big  pine  tree. 

iVnd  now  let  us  see  what  befell  little  Alvilda. 
She  slept  quietly  for  about  twenty  minutes  after 
her  sister  left  her;  and  she  would  have  slept 
longer  if  something  very  extraordinary  had  not 
happened.  She  was  dreaming  that  the  big 
mastiff.  Hector,  at  home  in  the  parsonage,  was 
insisting  upon  kissing  her,  and  she  was  struggling 
to  get  away  from  his  cold,  wet  nose,  but  could 
not.  A  strange,  wild  odor  was  filling  the  air, 
and  it  penetrated  into  Alvilda's  dream  and 
made  her  toss  uneasily.  There  was  Hector 
again,  with  his  cold,  wet  nose,  and  he  was  blow- 
ing his  warm  breath  into  her  face.  She  tried 
to  scold  him,  but  not  a  sound  could  she  pro- 
duce. In  her  annoyance  she  struck  out  with 
her  hand  and  hit  something  warm  and  furr)-. 
But  here  consciousness  broke  through  the  filmy 
webs  of  slumber ;  she  opened  her  eyes  wide 
and  raised  herself  on  her  elbow.  There  stood 
Hector,  indeed,  and  stared  straight  into  her 
eyes.  But  how  big  he  was  !  And  how  his  ears 
had  shrunk  and  his  fur  grown  !  Alvilda  rubbed 
her  eyes  to  make  sure  that  she  was  awake.  She 
stared  once  more  with  a  dim  apprehension,  and 
saw, — yes,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it, — she 
saw  that  it  was  not  Hector.  It  was  an  enor- 
mous, big  brown  beast,  that  stood  snuffing  at 
her;  it  was,  perhaps,  even  a  dangerous  beast, 
which  might  take  it  into  its  head  to  hurt  her. 
It  was, — yes,  now  she  was  quite  sure  of  it, — it 
was  a  big  brown  bear  ! 

The  little  girl's  first  impulse  was  to  cry  out 
for  help.  But  it  was  so  strangely  still  about  her. 
Where  were  her  brothers  and  sister,  Fritz  and 
his  freebooters,  Sophy  and  her  friend  Ingeborg? 
Itcouldnotbe  possible  that  they  had  left  heralone 
here  in  the  forest.  She  threw  frightened  glances 
about  her;  but  wherever  she  looked  she  saw 
nothing  but  the  long,  solemn  colonnades  of 
brown  pine  trunks.  And  there,  right  in  front  of 
her,  stood  the  bear,  staring  at  her  with  his  small 
black  eyes.  It  occurred  to  her,  even  amid 
her  fright,  that  she  must  try  to  make  friends 
with  this  bear,  in  which  case,  perhaps,  he  might 




consent  not  to  eat  her.  She  knew  from  her  fairy- 
tales that  there  were  good  bears  and  bad  bears, 
and  she  devoutly  hoped  that  her  new  acquain- 
tance might  prove  to  belong  to  the  order  of  good 
bears.  So,  with  a  quaking  heart  and  a  voice  that 
shook,  she  arose,  and  putting  her  hand  on  the 
bear's  neck,  she  exclaimed  with  pathetic  friend- 
hness  :  "  I  know  you  very  well,  Mr.  Bear,  but 
you  don't  know  me.  I  know  you  from  my 
picture-book.  You  are  the  good  bear  who 
carried  the  Princess  on  your  back,  away  from 
the  Trold's  castle." 

The  bear  was  apparently  not  displeased  to 
know  that  he  had  made  so  favorable  an  impres- 
sion, though  he  wished  to  make  it  plain  that  he 
could  n't  be  bamboozled  by  flattery.  For  he 
shook  his  great  shaggy  head  and  gave  a  low, 
good-natured  grumble.  And  just  at  that  mo- 
ment he  caught  sight  of  the  big  basket  of  straw- 
berries that  stood  under  the  tree.  And  turning 
toward  it,  he  slowly  lifted  his  right  fore  paw, 
and,  putting  it  straight  into  the  basket,  deliber- 
ately upset  it. 

"  Why,  Bear,  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 
cried  Alvilda,  half  forgetting  her  fear.  "Why, 
don't  you  know,  those  are  Fritz's  berries?  —  and 
he  will  be  so  angry  when  he  gets  back.  For 
Fritz,  you  know,  is  quite  high-tempered.  Now, 
if  you  '11  eat  my  berries,  you  may  have  them, 
and  welcome;  but,  dear  Mr.  Bear,  do  let  Fritz's 

It  may  be  surmised  that  the  bear  was  not 
greatly  moved  by  this  argument.  He  calmly 
went  on  eating  Fritz's  berries,  which  were  scat- 
tered all  over  the  ground,  and  grumbled  now 
and  then  contentedly,  as  if  to  say  that  he  found 
the  flavor  of  the  berries  excellent.  He  paid  no 
attention  whatever  to  Alvilda's  own  little  basket, 
which  she  had  placed  invitingly  before  his 
nose ;  but,  when  he  had  finished  Fritz's  berries, 
he  selected  the  next  biggest  basket  and  upset 
tliat  in  the  same  deliberate  fashion  in  which  he 
had  upturned  the  first  one. 

"  Why,  now,  Mr.  Bear,  I  don't  think  you  are 
good,  after  all,"  said  Alvilda,  when  she  saw  her 
friend  make  havoc  among  the  berrj'-baskets. 
"  Don't  you  know  you  '11  get  stomach-ache,  if  you 
eat  so  many  berries? — and  then  you  '11  have  to 
go  to  bed  in  your  den  and  take  nasty  medicine." 

But,  seeing  that  the  bear  was  no  more  affected 

by  self-interest  than  he  was  by  regard  for  other 
people's  property,  Alvilda,  in  her  zeal,  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck  and  tried  to  drag  him  away. 
She  found,  however,  that  she  was  no  match  for 
Bruin  in  strength,  and  therefore  sorrowfully  made 
up  her  mind  to  abandon  him  to  his  own  devices. 
"  Now,  Bear,"  she  said,  seating  herself  again  un- 
der the  tree,  and  quite  forgetting  that  she  had 
once  been  frightened,  "if  you  '11  behave  your- 
self, I  am  going  to  make  you  a  pretty  wreath  of 
flowers.  Then,  Mr.  Bear,  won't  you  look  hand- 
some when  you  get  home  to  your  family  ?  " 

And,  delighted  at  this  vision  of  the  bear  return- 
ing to  his  astonished  family  decorated  with  a 
wreath,  she  clapped  her  hands,  emptied  a  basket 
of  wild  flowers  in  her  lap,  and  began  to  tie  them 
together.  Lilies  of  the  valley,  she  feared.  Bruin 
would  scarcely  appreciate ;  but  brier-roses,  vio- 
lets, and  columbines,  she  thought,  would  not  be 
beyond  his  taste;  and  adding  here  and  there  a 
sprig  of  whortleberries  and  of  flowering  heather 
to  give  solidity  to  her  wreath,  she  tied  it  securely 
about  the  bear's  neck  and  laughed  aloud  with 
joy  at  his  appearance.  Bruin  had  obviously  a 
notion  that  this  was  a  kindly  act,  for  he  suddenly 
rose  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  with  a  pleased 
grumble  made  an  attempt  to  look  at  himself. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Bruin,"  cried  Alvilda,  "you 
look  perfectly  lovely  !  Your  family  won't  recog- 
nize you  when  they  see  you  again." 

The  bear  lifted  up  his  head  and,  as  his  eyes 
met  Alvilda's,  there  was  a  gleam  in  them  of  mild 
astonishment,  and,  as  the  little  girl  imagined,  of 
gratitude.  She  laughed  and  talked  on  merrily 
for  some  minutes,  while  her  friend  sat  down  on 
his  haunches  and  continued  to  gaze  at  her  with 
the  same  stolid  wonder.  But  then,  suddenly, 
while  Alvilda  was  making  another  wreath  for 
Bruin  to  take  home  to  his  wife,  the  blare  of 
a  trumpet  re-echoed  through  the  woods,  and 
laughing  voices  were  heard  approaching.  The 
bear  pricked  up  his  ears,  sniffed  the  air  suspi- 
ciously, and  waddled  slowly  away  between  the 
tree  trunks. 

-  "  Why,  no.  Bear,"  Alvilda  cried  after  him ; 
"  why  don't  you  stay  and  meet  Fritz  and  Sophy 
and  the  judge's  Albert  ?  " 

But  the  bear,  instead  of  returning,  broke  into 
a  gentle  trot,  and  she  heard  the  dry  branches 
creak  beneath  his  tread  as  he  vanished  in  the 


'  JD 

underbrush.  And  just  as  she  lost  the  last  glimpse 
of  him,  Fritz  and  Sophy  and  the  whole  party  of 
children  came  rushing  up  to  her,  excusing  them- 
selves for  their  absence,  calling  her  all  manner 
of  pet  names,  and  saying  that  they  had  hoped 
she  had  not  been  frightened.  "  Oh,  no,  not  at 
all,"  answered  Alvilda ;  "  I  have  had  such  a 
nice  bear  here,  who  has  kept  me  compan}'.  But 
I  am  so  sorry  he  has  eaten  up  all  your  berries." 

The  children  thought  at  first  that  she  must  be 
joking;  but  seeing  all  the  baskets  upset,  and 
smelling  the  strong,  wild  odor  that  was  yet  linger- 
ing in  the  air,  they  turned  pale  and  stood  gazing 
at  each  other  in  speechless  fright.  But  Sophy 
burst  into  tears,  hugged  her  little  sister  to  her 
bosom,  and  cried : 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  ever  forgive  me,  Alvilda  ? 
It  is  all  my  fault !  I  promised  Papa  not  to 
leave  you." 

It  was  of  no  use  that  Alvilda  kept  repeating  : 
"  But,  Sophy,  he  was  not  a  bad  bear.  He  was 
a  nice  bear,  and  he  did  n't  hurt  me  at  all." 

There  could  be  no  more  berrying  after  that. 
The  girls  were  in  haste  to  be  gone,  and  the  val- 
iant freebooters  had  no  desire  to  detain  them. 
They  picked  up  their  belongings  as  fast  as  they 
could  and  hurried  down  through  the  forest,  each 
taking  his  turn,  as  before,  in  carrying  Alvilda. 
But  they  were  neither  knights  nor  princesses  nor 
freebooters  any  more.  They  were  only  fright- 
ened boys  and  girls. 

When  they  arri\ed  at  the  parsonage  about 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  they  were  too  tired, 
breathless,  and  demoralized  to  care  much  what 
became  of  them.  Sophy  took  upon  herself  to 
tell  her  father  what  had  happened.  She  was 
prepared  for  the  worst,  and  in  her  remorse  would 
have  accepted  cheerfully  any  punishment.  But 
imagine  her  astonishment  when  her  father  ut- 
tered no  word  of  reproach  but  folded  Alvilda 
in  his  arms  and  thanked  God  that  he  had  his 
little  girl  once  more  safe  and  sound. 

Now,  if  my  story  had  ended  here,  nobody 
would  have  been  astonished ;  but  the  most  as- 
tonishing part  of  it  is  what  remains  to  be  told. 
Six  months  after  Alvilda's  encounter  with  the 

good  bear,  when  a  foot  of  snow  covered  the 
ground,  two  of  the  parson's  lumbermen,  who 
were  famous  hunters,  returned  from  a  week's  so- 
journ in  the  woods.  Fritz,  Albert,  and  Alvilda, 
bundled  up  to  their  ears  in  scarfs  and  overcoats, 
were  sliding  down  the  hill  behind  the  stables, 
when  they  saw  the  two  lumbermen,  sitting 
astride  of  some  big,  dark  object,  coasting  down 
toward  them.  "  Hurrah  !  "  cried  Fritz,  waving 
his  cap  to  them,  "  there  are  Nils  and  Thorsten ! 
And  they  have  killed  something  too." 

Nils  and  Thorsten,  returning  the  greeting  of 
the  young  master,  slackened  their  speed  and 
stopped  beside  the  children.  It  was  a  big,  brown 
he-bear  they  had  on  their  sled  —  a  regular 
monster;  and  they  were  not  a  little  proud  of 
having  killed  him.  His  tongue  was  hanging 
out  of  his  mouth,  and  there  was  a  small  hole  in 
his  breast  from  which  the  blood  was  trickling 
down  on  the  snow. 

"Je-miny,"  exclaimed  Fritz  admiringly,  plun- 
ging his  fist  into  the  beast's  dense  fur,  "  ain't  he 
a  stunner  ?  But  what  is  this  ? —  I  declare  if  he 
has  n't  a  wreath  of  withered  flowers  about  his 
neck !  " 

Alvilda,  who  had  timidly  drawn  near,  started 
forward  at  these  words  and,  letting  her  sled  go, 
stared  at  the  dead  animal. 

"  Why,  it  is  my  bear !  "  she  cried,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  it  is  my  dear,  good  bear !  " 

And  before  any  one  could  prevent  her,  she 
had  flung  her  arms  about  the  bear's  neck  and 
buried  her  face  in  his  fur;  and  there  she  lay 
weeping  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Oh,  they  have  been  bad  to  you,"  she  sobbed ; 
"  and  you  were  so  good  to  me ;  and  you  have 
worn  my  wreath  all  this  time." 

The  two  hunters  pulled  the  sled  down  into 
the  court-yard,  Alvilda  still  weeping  over  her 
dead  playmate.  And  when  her  father  came 
out  and  hfted  her  up  in  his  arms,  she  yet  re- 
mained inconsolable,  lamenting  the  fate  of  her 
good  bear.  But  from  the  animal's  neck  the 
pastor  cut  the  withered  wreath,  and  it  hangs 
now  on  the  wall  in  Alvilda's  room  as  a  memento 
of  her  ursine  friend  and  the  love  she  bore  him. 

^^"^'4  :»&  o.l)f^- 

^HEN  Independence 
was  declared, in  1776, 
and  the  United  States 
of  America  appeared 
among  the  powers  of 
the  earth,  the  con- 
tinent beyond  the 
Alleghanies  was  one 
unbroken  wilderness ; 
and  the  buffaloes,  the 
first  animals  to  vanish 
when  the  wilderness 
is  settled,  roved  up  to 
the  crests  of  the  mountains  which  mark  the 
western  boundaries  of  Pennsylvania,  Virginia, 
and  the  Carolinas.  They  were  plentiful  in 
what  are  now  the  States  of  Ohio,  Kentucky, 
and  Tennessee.  But  by  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century  they  had  been  driven  beyond 
the  Mississippi;  and  for  the  next  eighty  years 
they  formed  one  of  the  most  distinctive  and 
characteristic  features  of  existence  on  the  great 
plains.  Their  numbers  were  countless — incred- 
ible. In  vast  herds  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
individuals,  they  roamed  from  the  Saskatchewan 
to  the  Rio  Grande  and  westward  to  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  They  furnished  all  the  means  of 
livelihood  to  the  tribes  of  Horse  Indians,  and 
to  the  curious  population  of  French  Metis,  or 
Half-breeds,  on  the  Red  River,  as  well  as  those 
dauntless  and  archtypical  wanderers,  the  white 
hunters  and  trappers.  Their  numbers  slowly 
diminished ;  but  the  decrease  was  very  gradual 
until  after  the  Civil  War.  They  were  not  de- 
stro)'ed  by  the  settlers,  but  by  the  railways  and 
by  the  skin  hunters. 

After  the  ending  of  the  Ci\'il  War,  the  work  of 
constructing  transcontinental  railway  lines  was 

pushed  forward  with  the  utmost  vigor.  These 
supplied  cheap  and  indispensable,  but  hitherto 
wholly  lacking,  means  of  transportation  to  the 
hunters ;  and  at  the  same  time  the  demand  for 
buffalo  robes  and  hides  became  very  great, 
while  the  enormous  numbers  of  the  beasts,  and 
the  comparative  ease  with  which  they  were 
slaughtered,  attracted  throngs  of  adventurers. 
The  result  was  such  a  slaughter  of  big  game  as 
the  world  had  never  before  seen ;  never  before 
were  so  many  large  animals  of  one  species  de- 
stroyed in  so  short  a  time.  Several  million  buf- 
faloes were  slain.  In  fifteen  years  from  the 
time  the  destruction  fairly  began,  the  great 
herds  were  exterminated.  In  all  probability 
there  are  not  now,  all  told,  a  thousand  head  of 
•\vild  buffaloes  on  the  American  continent ;  and 
no  herd  of  a  hundred  individuals  has  been  in 
existence  since  1884. 

The  first  great  break  followed  the  building  of 
the  Union  Pacific  Railway.  All  the  buffaloes 
of  the  middle  region  were  then  destroyed,  and 
the  others  were  then  spht  into  two  vast  sets  of 
herds,  the  northern  and  the  southern.  The 
latter  were  destroyed  first,  about  1878;  the 
former  not  until  1883.  My  own  experience 
with  buffaloes  was  obtained  in  the  latter  )'ear, 
among  small  bands  and  scattered  individuals, 
near  my  ranch  on  the  Little  Missouri ;  I  have 
related  it  elsewhere.  But  two  of  my  relatives 
were  more  fortunate,  and  took  part  in  the  chase 
of  these  lordly  beasts  when  the  herds  still  dark- 
ened the  prairie  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see. 

During  the  first  two  months  of  1877,  my 
brother  Elliott,  then  a  lad  not  seventeen  years 
old,  made  a  buffalo-hunt  toward  the  edge  of 
the  Staked  Plains  in  northern  Texas.  He  was 
thus  in  at  the  death  of  the  southern  herds,  for 



all,  save  a  few  scattering  bands,  were  destroyed 
within  two  years  of  this  time. 
-  My  brother  was  with  my  cousin,  John  Roose- 
velt, and  they  went  out  on  the  range  with  six 
other  adventurers  —  a  German- American,  a 
Scotchman  who  had  been  in  the  Confederate 
cavalry  and  afterward  in  Maximilian's  Mexican 
body-guard,  and  four  Irishmen.  It  was  a  party 
of  just  such  young  men  as  frequently  drift  to  the 
frontier.  All  were  short  of  cash,  and  all  were 
hardy,  vigorous  fellows  eager  for  excitement 
and  adventure.  My  brother  was  much  the 
youngest  of  the  party,  and  the  least  experi- 
enced ;  but  he  was  well-grown,  strong  and 
healthy,  and  very  fond  of  boxing,  wrestling,  run- 
ning, riding,  and  shooting ;  moreover,  he  had 
served  an  apprenticeship  in  hunting  deer  and 
turkeys.  Their  mess-kit,  ammunition,  bedding, 
and  provisions  were  carried  in  two  prairie 
wagons,  each  drawn  by  four  horses.  In  addirion 
to  the  teams  they  had  six  saddle-animals — all 
of  them  shaggy,  unkempt  mustangs.  Three  or 
four  dogs,  setters  and  half-bred  greyhounds, 
trotted  along  behind  the  wagons.  Each  man 
took  his  turn  for  two  days  as  teamster  and  cook ; 
and  there  were  always  two  with  the  wagons, 
or  camp,  as  the  case  might  be,  while  the  other 
six  were  off  hunting,  usually  in  couples.  The 
expedition  was  undertaken  partly  for  sport  and 
parti)-  with  the  hope  of  profit ;  for,  after  pur- 
chasing the  horses  and  wagons,  none  of  the 
party  had  any  money  left,  and  they  were  forced 
to  rely  upon  selling  skins  and  hides  and,  when 
near  the  forts,  meat. 

They  started  on  January  2d,  and  shaped  their 
course  for  the  head-waters  of  the  Salt  Fork  of 
the  Brazos,  the  center  of  abundance  for  the 
great  buffalo  herds.  During  the  first  few  days 
they  were  in  the  outskirts  of  the  settled  country, 
and  shot  only  small  game  —  quail  and  prairie 
fowl ;  then  they  began  to  kill  turkey,  deer,  and 
antelope.  These  they  "  swapped  "  for  flour  and 
feed,  at  the  ranches  or  squalid,  straggling  fron- 
tier towns.  On  several  occasions  the  hunters 
were  lost,  spending  the  night  out  in  the  open,  or 
sleeping  at  a  ranch  if  one  was  found.  Both 
towns  and  ranches  were  filled  with  rough  cus- 
tomers; all  of  my  brother's  companions  were 
muscular,  hot-headed  fellows ;  and  as  a  con- 
sequence they  were  involved  in  several  savage 
Vol.  XVII.— 17. 

"  free  fights,"  in  which,  fortunately,  nobody  was 
seriously  hurt.  My  brother  kept  a  very  brief 
diary,  the  entries  being  fairly  startling  from  their 
conciseness.  A  number  of  times,  the  mention 
of  their  arrival,  either  at  a  halting-place,  a  little 
village,  or  a  rival  buffalo-camp  is  followed  by 
the  laconic  remark,  "  big  fight,"  or  "  big  row  " ; 
but  once  they  evidently  concluded  discretion  to 
be  the  better  part  of  valor,  the  entry  for  January 
20th  being,  "  On  the  road  —  passed  through  Bel- 
knap— too  lively,  so  kept  on  to  the  Brazos — 
very  late."  The  buffalo-camps  in  particular 
were  very  jealous  of  one  another,  each  party 
regarding  itself  as  having  exclusive  right  to  the 
range  it  was  the  first  to  find ;  and  on  several 
occasions  this  feeling  came  near  involving  my 
brother  and  his  companions  in  serious  trouble. 

While  slowly  driving  the  heavy  wagons  to 
the  hunting-grounds  they  suffered  the  usual 
hardships  of  plains  travel.  The  weather,  as  in 
most  Texas  winters,  alternated  between  the  ex- 
tremes of  heat  and  cold.  There  had  been  little 
rain  ;  in  consequence  water  was  scarce.  Twice 
they  were  forced  to  cross  ^vild,  barren  wastes, 
where  the  pools  had  dried  up,  and  they  suffered 
terribly  from  thirst.  On  the  first  occasion  the 
horses  were  in  good  condition,  and  they  traveled 
steadily,  with  only  occasional  short  halts,  for  over 
thirty-six  hours,  by  which  time  they  were  across 
the  waterless  country.  The  journal  reads  :  "Jan- 
uar)'  29th. — Big  hunt — no  water  and  we  left 
Quinn's  blockhouse  this  morning  3  a.  m. — 
on  the  go  all  night — hot.  January  28th. —  No 
water — hot — at  seven  we  struck  water  and  by 
eight  Stinking  Creek  —  grand  'hurrah.'"  On 
the  second  occasion,  the  horses  were  weak  and 
traveled  slowly,  so  the  party  went  forty-eight 
hours  without  drinking.  "  February  19th. — Pulled 
on  twenty-one  miles — trail  bad — freezing  night, 
no  water,  and  wolves  after  our  fresh  meat.  20th. 
—  Made  nineteen  miles  over  prairie  ;  again  only 
mud,  no  water,  freezing  hard — frightful  thirst. 
2ist. — Thirty  miles  to  Clear  Fork,  fresh  water." 
These  entries  were  hurriedly  jotted  down  at  the 
time,  by  a  boy  who  deemed  it  unmanly  to  make 
any  especial  note  of  hardship  or  suffering ;  but 
every  plainsman  will  understand  the  real  agony 
implied  in  working  hard  for  two  nights,  one  day, 
and  portions  of  two  others,  w ithout  water,  even 
in  cool  weather.     During  the  last  few  miles  the 




Staggering  horses  were  only  just  able  to  drag 
the  lightly  loaded  wagon, —  for  they  had  but 
one  with  them  at  the  time, — while  the  men 
plodded  along  in  sullen  silence,  their  mouths 
so  parched  that  they  could  hardly  utter  a  word. 
My  own  hunting  and  ranching  were  done  in  the 
North  where  there  is  more  water ;  so  I  have 
never  had  a  similar  experience.  Once  I  took 
a  team  in  thirty-six  hours  across  a  country 
where  there  was  no  water;  but  by  good  luck  it 
rained  heavily  in  the  night,  so  that  the  horses 
had  plenty  of  wet  grass,  and  I  caught  the  rain 
in  my  slicker,  and  so  had  enough  water  for  my- 
self. Personally,  I  have  but  once  been  as  long 
as  twenty-six  hours  without  water. 

The  party  pitched  their  permanent  camp  in  a 
caiion  of  the  Brazos  known  as  Canon  Blanco. 
The  last  few  days  of  their  journey  they  traveled 
beside  the  river  through  a  veritable  hunter's 
paradise.  The  drought  had  forced  all  the  ani- 
mals to  come  to  the  larger  watercourses,  and 
the  country  was  literally  swarming  with  game. 
Every  day,  and  all  day  long,  the  wagons  trav- 
eled through  the  herds  of  antelopes  that  grazed 
on  every  side,  while,  whenever  they  approached 
the  caiion  brink,  bands  of  deer  started  from 
the  timber  that  fringed  the  river's  course ;  often, 
even  the  deer  wandered  out  on  the  prairie  with 
the  antelopes.  Nor  was  the  game  shy ;  for  the 
hunters,  both  red  and  white,  followed  only  the 
buffaloes  until  the  huge,  shaggy  herds  were  de- 
stroyed, and  the  smaller  beasts  were  in  conse- 
quence but  little  molested. 

Once  my  brother  shot  five  antelopes  from  a 
single  stand,  when  the  party  were  short  of  fresh 
venison ;  he  was  out  of  sight  and  to  leeward, 
and  the  antelopes  seemed  confused  rather  than 
alarmed  at  the  rifle-reports  and  the  fall  of  their 
companions.  As  was  to  be  expected  where  game 
was  so  plenty,  wolves  and  coyotes  also  abounded. 
At  night  they  surrounded  the  camp,  wailing  and 
howling  in  a  kind  of  shrieking  chorus  through- 
out the  hours  of  darkness  ;  one  night  they  came 
up  so  close  that  the  frightened  horses  had  to  be 
hobbled  and  guarded.  On  another  occasion  a 
large  wolf  actually  crept  into  camp,  where  he 
was  seized  by  the  dogs,  and  the  yelling,  writh- 
ing knot  of  combatants  rolled  over  one  of  the 
sleepers ;  finally,  the  long-toothed  prowler  man- 
aged to  shake  himself  loose,  and  vanished  in  the 

gloom.  One  evening  they  were  almost  as  much 
startled  by  a  visit  of  a  different  kind.  I'hey  were 
just  finishing  supper  when  an  Indian  stalked 
suddenly  and  silently  out  of  the  surrounding 
darkness,  squatted  down  in  the  circle  of  fire- 
light, remarked  gravely,  "  Me  Tonk,"  and  began 
helping  himself  from  the  stew.  He  belonged  to 
the  friendly  tribe  of  Tonkaways,  so  his  hosts 
speedily  recovered  their  equanimity ;  as  for  him, 
he  had  never  lost  his,  and  he  sat  eating  by  the 
fire  until  there  was  literally  nothing  left  to  eat. 
The  panic  caused  by  his  appearance  was  natural ; 
for  at  that  time  the  Comanches  were  a  scourge 
to  the  buffalo-hunters,  ambushing  them  and 
raiding  their  camps ;  and  several  bloody  fights 
had  taken  place. 

Their  camp  had  been  pitched  near  a  deep 
pool  or  water-hole.  On  both  sides  the  bluffs 
rose  like  walls,  and  where  they  had  crumbled 
and  lost  their  sheerness,  the  vast  buffalo  herds, 
passing  and  repassing  for  countless  genera- 
tions, had  worn  furrowed  trails  so  deep  that 
the  backs  of  the  beasts  were  but  little  above 
the  surrounding  soil.  In  the  bottom,  and  in 
places  along  the  crests  of  the  cliffs  that  hemmed 
in  the  cahon-like  valley,  there  were  groves  of 
tangled  trees,  tenanted  by  great  flocks  of  wild 
turkeys.  Once  my  brother  made  two  really 
remarkable  shots  at  a  pair  of  these  great  birds. 
It  was  at  dusk,  and  they  were  flying  directly 
overhead  from  one  cliff'  to  the  other.  He  had 
in  his  hand  a  thirty-eight-caliber  Ballard  rifle, 
and,  as  the  gobblers  winged  their  way  heavily 
by,  he  brought  them  both  down  with  two  suc- 
cessive bullets.  This  was  of  course  mainly  a 
piece  of  mere  luck  ;  but  it  meant  good  shooting, 
too.  The  Ballard  was  a  very  accurate,  handy 
little  weapon ;  it  belonged  to  me,  and  was  the 
first  rifle  I  ever  owned  or  used.  With  it  I  had 
once  killed  a  deer,  the  only  specimen  of  large 
game  I  had  then  shot ;  and  I  presented  the 
rifle  to  my  brother  when  he  went  to  Texas.  In 
our  happy  ignorance  we  deemed  it  quite  good 
enough  for  buffalo  or  anything  else  ;  but  out  on 
the  plains  my  brother  soon  found  himself  forced 
to  procure  a  heavier  and  more  deadly  weapon. 

When  camp  was  pitched  the  horses  were 
turned  loose  to  graze  and  refresh  themselves 
after  their  trying  journey,  during  which  they 
had   lost   flesh    wofully.     They   were    watched 

iSSg  ] 



and  tended  by  the  two  men  who  were  always 
left  in  camp,  and,  save  on  rare  occasions,  were 
only  used  to  haul  in  the  buffalo-hides.  The 
camp-guards  for  the  time  being  acted  as  cooks ; 
and,  though  coffee  and  flour  both  ran  short 
and  finally  gave  out,  fresh  meat  of  every  kind 
was  abundant.  The  camp  was  never  without 
buffalo-beef,  deer  and  antelope  venison,  wild 
turkeys,  prairie-chickens,  quails,  ducks,  and  rab- 
bits. The  birds  were  simply  "  potted,"  as  occa- 
sion required  ;  when  the  quarry  was  deer  or 
antelope,  the  hunters  took  the  dogs  with  them 
to  run  down  the  wounded  animals.  But  almost 
the  entire  attention  of  the  hunters  was  given 
to  the  buffalo.  After  an  evening  spent  in  loung- 
ing round  the  camp-fire,  and  a  sound  night's 
sleep,  wrapped  in  robes  and  blankets,  they 
w-ould  get  up  before  daybreak,  snatch  a  hurried 
breakfast,  and  start  off  in  couples  through  the 
chilly  dawn.  The  great  beasts  were  very  plenti- 
ful ;  in  the  first  day's  hunt,  twenty  were  slain  ; 
but  the  herds  were  restless  and  e\"er  on  the 
move.  Sometimes  they  would  be  seen  right  by 
the  camp,  and  again  it  would  need  an  all-day's 
tramp  to  find  them.  There  was  no  difliculty  in 
spying  them  —  the  chief  trouble  with  forest 
game ;  for  on  the  prairie  a  buffalo  makes  no 
effort  to  hide,  and  its  black,  shaggy  bulk  looms 
up  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see.  Sometimes,  they 
were  found  in  small  parties  of  three  or  four 
individuals,  sometimes  in  bands  of  about  two 
hundred,  and  again  in  great  herds  of  many 
thousand ;  and  solitary  old  bulls,  expelled  from 
the  herds,  were  common  If  on  broken  land, 
among  hills  and  ravines,  there  was  not  much 
difficulty  in  approaching  from  the  leeward  ;  for, 
though  the  sense  of  smell  in  the  buffalo  is  very 
acute,  they  do  not  see  w'ell  at  a  distance  through 
their  overhanging  frontlets  of  coarse  and  matted 
hair.  If,  as  was  generally  the  case,  they  were 
out  on  the  open,  rolling  prairie,  the  stalking  was 
far  more  difficult.  Every  hollow,  every  earth 
hummock  and  sagebush  had  to  be  used  as 
cover.  The  hunter  wriggled  through  the  grass 
flat  on  his  face,  pushing  himself  along  for  per- 
haps a  quarter  of  a  mile  by  his  toes  and  fingers, 
heedless  of  the  spiny  cactus.  When  near  enough 
to  the  huge,  unconscious  quarry  the  hunter 
began  firing,  still  keeping  himself  carefully  con- 
cealed.    ](  the  smoke  was  blown  awav  by  the 

wind,  and  if  the  buffaloes  caught  no  glimpse  of 
the  assailant,  they  w-ould  often  stand  motionless 
and  stupid  until  many  of  their  number  had  been 
slain ;  the  hunter  being  careful  not  to  fire  too 
high,  aiming  just  behind  the  shoulder,  about  a 
third  of  the  way  up  the  body,  that  his  bullet  might 
go  through  the  lungs.  Sometimes,  even  after 
they  saw  the  man,  they  would  act  as  if  confused 
and  panic-struck,  huddling  up  together  and 
staring  at  the  smoke  puft's  —  but  generally  they 
were  oft"  at  a  lumbering  gallop  as  soon  as  they 
had  an  idea  of  the  point  of  danger.  When 
once  started,  they  ran  for  many  miles  before 
halting,  and  their  pursuit  on  foot  was  extremely 

One  morning  my  cousin  and  brother  had 
been  left  in  camp  as  guards.  They  were  sitting, 
idly  warming  themselves  in  the  first  sunbeams, 
when  their  attention  was  sharply  drawn  to  four 
buffaloes  who  were  coming  to  the  pool  to  drink. 
The  beasts  came  down  a  game  trail,  a  deep  vut 
in  the  bluft",  fronting  where  they  were  sitting,  and 
they  did  not  dare  stir  for  fear  of  being  discov- 
ered. The  buffaloes  walked  into  the  pool,  and, 
after  drinking  their  fill,  stood  for  some  time  with 
the  water  running  out  of  their  mouths,  idly  lash- 
ing their  sides  with  their  short  tails,  enjoying  the 
bright  warmth  of  the  early  sunshine  ;  then,  with 
much  splashing  and  the  gurgling  of  soft  mud, 
they  left  the  pool  and  clambered  up  the  bluff 
with  unwieldy  agilit)'.  As  soon  as  they  turned, 
my  brother  and  cousin  ran  for  their  rifles ;  but 
before  they  got  back  the  buftaloes  had  crossed 
the  bluff  crest.  Climbing  after  them,  the  two 
hunters  found,  when  they  reached  the  sum- 
mit, that  their  game,  instead  of  halting,  had 
struck  straight  oft'  across  the  prairie  at  a  slow- 
lope,  doubdess  intending  to  rejoin  the  herd  they 
had  left.  After  a  moment's  consultation,  the 
men  went  in  pursuit,  excitement  overcoming 
their  knowledge  that  they  ought  not,  by  rights, 
to  leave  the  camp.  They  struck  a  steady  trot, 
following  the  animals  by  sight  until  they  passed 
over  a  knoll,  and  then  trailing  them.  Where 
the  grass  was  long,  as  it  was  for  the  first  four  or 
five  miles,  this  was  a  work  of  no  difliculty,  and 
thev  did  not  break  their  gait,  only  glancing  now 
and  then  at  the  trail.  As  the  sun  rose  and  the 
day  became  warm,  their  breathing  grew  quicker; 
and  the  sweat  rolled  oft'  their  faces  as  thev  ran 




across  the  rough  prairie  sward,  u\)  and  down  the 
long  inclines,  now  and  then  shifting  their  heavy 
rifles  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other.  But  they 
were  in  good  training,  and  they  did  not  have 
to  halt.     At  last  they  reached  stretches  of  bare 

THE\      W  KKL      I.\ 

L  UD      Il.Al.M.'.U,     .\Mj 

THbV     Dill 

ground,  sun-baked  and  grassles.s,  where  the  trail 
grew  dim  ;  and  here  they  had  to  go  very  slowly, 
carefully  e.xaniining  the  faint  dents  and  marks 
made  in  the  soil  by  the  heavy  hoofs,  and  unrav- 
eling the  trail  from  the  mass  of  old  foot-marks. 
It  was  tedious  work,  but  it  enabled  them  to 
completely  recover  their  breath  by  the  time  that 
they  again  struck  the  grass  land  ;  and  but  a 
few  hundred  yards  from  its  edge,  in  a  slight  hol- 
low, they  saw  the  four  buffaloes  just  entering  a 
herd  of  fifty  or  si.xty  that  were  scattered  out 
grazing.  The  herd  paid  no  attention  to  the  new- 
comers, and  these  immediately  began  to  feed 
greedily.  After  a  whispered  consultation,  the 
two  hunters  crept  back,  and  made  a  long  circle 
that  brought  them  well  to  leeward  of  the  herd, 
in  line  with  a  slight  rise  in  the  ground.  They 
then  crawled  up  to  this  rise  and.  peering  through 
the  tufts  of  tall,  rank  grass,  saw  the  unconscious 
.beasts  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  or  fifty  yards 
away.  They  fired  together,  each  mortally  wound- 
ing his  animal,  and  then,  rushing  in  as  the  herd 
halted  in  confusion,  and  following  them  as  they 
ran,  impeded  bv  numbers,  hurry,  and  panic, 
they  eventually  got  three  more. 

On  another  occasion,  the  same  two  hunters 
nearly  met  with  a  frightful  death,  being  over- 

taken by  a  vast  herd  of  stampeded  buffaloes.  All 
animals  that  go  in  herds  are  subject  to  these 
instantaneous  attacks  of  uncontrollable  terror, 
under  the  influence  of  which  they  become  per- 
fectly mad,  and  rush  headlong  in  dense  masses 
on  any  form  of  death. 
Horses,  and  more 
especially  cattle,  often 
suffer  from  stampedes ; 
it  is  a  danger  against 
which  the  cowboys 
are  compelled  to  be 
|ierpetually  on  guard. 
A  band  of  stampeded 
horses,  sweeping  in 
mad  terror  up  a  val- 
ley, will  dash  against 
a  rock  or  tree  with 
such  violence  as  to 
leave  several  dead  ani- 
mals at  its  base,  while 
the  survivors  race  on 
■'   ""'^   '"  "■'"-'■'  without  halting  ;  they 

will  overturn  and  destroy  tents  and  wagons,  and 
a  man  on  foot  caught  in  the  rush  has  but  a  small 
chance  for  his  life.  A  buffalo  stampede  is  much 
worse — or  rather  was  much  worse,  in  the  old 
days  —  because  of  the  great  weight  and  im- 
mense numbers  of  the  beasts,  who,  in  a  fury 
of  heedless  terror,  plunged  over  cliffs  and  into 
rivers,  and  bore  down  whatever  was  in  tlieir 
path.  On  the  occasion  in  question,  my  brother 
and  cousin  were  on  their  way  homeward.  They 
were  just  mounting  one  of  the  long,  low  swells 
into  which  the  prairie  was  broken  when  they 
heard  a  low,  muttering,  rumbling  noise,  like 
far-off  thunder.  It  grew  steadily  louder,  and, 
not  knowing  what  it  meant,  they  hurried  for- 
ward to  the  top  of  the  rise.  .\s  they  reached  it, 
they  stopped  short  in  terror  and  amazement,  for 
before  them  the  whole  jjrairie  was  black  with 
madly  rushing  buffaloes. 

Afterward  they  learned  that  another  couple 
of  hunters,  four  or  five  miles  off,  had  fired  into 
and  stampeded  a  large  herd.  This  herd,  in  its 
rush,  gathered  others,  all  thundering  along  to- 
gether in  uncontrollable  and  increasing  panic. 
The  surprised  hunters  were  far  away  from 
any  broken  ground  or  other  place  of  refuge ; 
while  the  vast  herd  of  huge,  plunging,  maddened 




beasts  was  charging  straight  down  on  them  not 
a  quarter  of  a  rtule  distant.  Down  they  came !  — 
thousands  upon  thousands,  their  front  extending 
a  mile  in  breadth,  while  the  earth  shook  beneath 
their  thunderous  gallop,  and  as  they  came 
closer,  their  shaggy  frontlets  loomed  dimly 
through  the  columns  of  dust  thrown  up  from 
the  drj'  soil.  The  two  hunters  knew  that  their 
only  hope  for  life  was  to  split  the  herd,  which, 
though  it  had  so  broad  a  front,  was  not  ver)- 
deep.  If  they  failed  they  would  ine^dtably  be 
trampled  to  death. 

Waiting  until  the  beasts  were  in  close  range, 
they  opened  a  rapid  fire  from  their  heavy 
breech-loading  rifles,  yelling  at  the  top  of  their 
voices.  For  a  moment  the  result  seemed  doubt- 
fill.   The  line  thundered  steadily  down  on  them ; 

from  their  foes  in  front,  strove  desperately  to 
edge  away  from  the  dangerous  neighborhood; 
the  shouts  and  shots  were  redoubled  ;  the  hunt- 
ers were  almost  choked  by  the  cloud  of  dust 
through  which  they  could  see  the  stream  of  dark 
huge  bodies  passing  within  rifle-length  on  either 
side ;  and  in  a  moment  the  peril  was  over,  and 
the  two  men  were  left  alone  on  the  plain, 
unharmed,  though  with  their  nerves  terribly 
shaken.  The  herd  careered  on  toward  the 
horizon,  save  five  indi\iduals  who  had  been 
killed  or  disabled  by  the  shots. 

On  another  occasion,  when  my  brother  was 
out  with  one  of  his  Irish  friends,  they  fired  at 
a  small  herd  containing  an  old  bull ;  the  bull 
charged  the  smoke,  and  the  whole  herd  followed 
him.     Probably  they  were  simply  stampeded, 


then  it  swayed  violently,  as  two  or  three  of  the 
brutes  immediately  in  their  front  fell  beneath  the 
bullets,  while  the  neighbors  made  \-iolent  efforts 
to  press  off  sideways.  Then  a  narrow  wedge- 
shaped  rift  appeared  in  the  line,  and  widened 
as  it  came  up  closer,  and  the  buffaloes,  shrinking 

•splitting         a    HERD    OF    STAMPEDED    BLFFALOES. 

and  had  no  hostile  intention  ;  at  any  rate,  after 
the  death  of  their  leader,  they  rushed  by  without 
doing  any  damage. 

But  buffaloes  sometimes  charged  with  the 
utmost  determination,  and  were  then  dangerous 
antagonists.      My   cousin,    a   ver\-   hardy    and 




HIDES    AFTtK    A     HINT. 

resolute  hunter,  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a 
wounded  cow  which  he  followed  up  a  steep 
bluff  or  sand  clifi".  Just  as  he  reached  the  sum- 
mit, he  was  charged,  and  was  only  saved  by  the 
sudden  appearance  of  his  dog,  which  distracted 


the  cow's  attention.    He  thus  escaped  with  onlv 
a  tumble  and  a  few  bruises. 

My  brother  also  came  in  for  a  charge,  while 
killing  the  biggest  bull  that  was  slain  bv  anv  of 

the  party.     He  was  out  alone,  and  saw  a  small 
herd  of  cows  and  calves  at  some  distance,  with 
a  huge  bull  among  them,  towering  above  them 
like  a  giant.    There  was 
no  break  in  the  ground, 
nor  any  tree   nor  bush 
near  them,  but  by  mak- 
ing   a    half-circle,    my 
brother     managed      to 
creep    up    against    the 
\\ind    behind    a    slight 
roll  in  the  prairie  sur- 
face, until  he  was  ■within 
seventy-five  yards  of  the 
grazing    and    unconsci- 
ous beasts.    There  were 
some  cows   and  calves 
between   him    and    the 
bull,  and  he  had  to  wait 
some    moments    before 
they  shifted  position  as 
the  herd  grazed  onward 
and  gave  him  a  fair  shot; 
in  the  interval  they  had 
moved   so   far   forward  that  he  was   in   plain 
view.     His  first  bullet  struck  just  behind  the 
shoulder ;  the  herd  started  and  looked  around, 
but  the  bull  merelv  lifted  his  head  and  took  a 






A     HL'NTER  S    CAMP. 

Step  forward,  his  tail  curled  up  over  his  back. 
The  next  bullet  likewise  struck  fair,  nearly  in 
the  same  place,  telling  with  a  loud  "  pack !  " 
against  the  thick  hide,  and  making  the  dust  fly 
up  from  the  matted  hair.  Instantly  the  great 
bull  wheeled  and  charged  in  headlong  anger, 
while  the  herd  fled  in  the  opposite  direction. 
On  the  bare  prairie,  with  no  spot  of  refuge,  it 
was  useless  to  try  to  escape,  and  the  hunter, 
with  reloaded  rifle,  waited  until  the  bull  w'as 
not  far  off",  then  drew  up  his  weapon  and  fired. 
Either  he  was  nervous,  or  the  bull  at  the  moment 
bounded  over  some  obstacle,  for  the  ball  went 
a  little  wild  ;  nevertheless,  by  good  luck,  it  broke 
a  fore  leg,  and  the  great  beast  came  crashing  to 
the  earth,  and  was  slain  before  it  could  struggle 
to  its  feet. 

Two  days  after  this  event,  a  war 
party  of  Comanches  swept  down 
along  the  river.    They  "jumped" 

a  neighboring  camp,  killing  one  man  and  wound- 
ing two  more,  and  at  the  same  time  ran  off  all 
but  three  of  the  horses  belonging  to  our  eight 
adventurers.  With  the  remaining  three  horses 
and  one  wagon  they  set  out  homeward.  The 
march  was  hard  and  tedious;  they  lost  their 
way  and  were  in  jeo])ardy  from  quicksands 
and  cloudbursts ;  they  suffered  from  thirst  and 
cold,  their  shoes  gave  out  and  their  feet  were 
lamed  by  cactus  spines.  At  last  they  reached 
Fort  Sniffin  in  safety,  and  great  was  their  raven- 
ous rejoicing  when  they  procured  some  bread 
—  for  during  the  final  fortnight  of  the  hunt  they 
had  been  without  flour  or  vegetables  of  any  kind, 
or  even  coftee,  and  had  subsisted  on  fresh  meat 
"  straight."  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  very  healthy, 
as  well  as  a  very  pleasant  and  exciting  experi- 
ence ;  and  I  doubt  if  any  of  those  who  took 
part  in  it  will  ever  forget  their  great  buffalo-hunt 
on  the  Brazos. 





•^^//■'_  BY  NORA  PERRY         'Xxdl'S'^ 

^-yfff[  m 

Chapter  I. 

"  A  STEPMOTHER  ?     How  liomd  I  " 

"  Horrid  !  —  I  should  think  so." 

'■  What  is  it  that  is  horrid,  girls  ?  "  asked  an- 
other girl,  who,  in  passing,  had  caught  only  the 
last  sentence. 

"  Why,  about  May  Bartlett,  you  know." 

"  No,  I  don't  know ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  She  has  a  stepmother." 

'^  No ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  first  two  speakers, —  the 
Macy  sisters, — Joanna  and  Elsie. 

"  But  when,  when  did  it  happen,  this  step- 
mother business  ?  "  exclaimed  the  girl  to  whom 
they  were  telling  the  news.  "  I  saw  May  in 
vacation,  and  she  did  n't  lisp  a  w^ord  of  it." 

"  But  you  have  n't  seen  her  since  you  came 
back  ?  "  ' 

"  Well,  no;  as  this  is  my  first  //<?/■/■;■  back,  almost. 
But  tell  me  when  the  stepmother  was  brought 
on  the  scene  ?  " 

"  A  week  ago :  that  is,  Mr.  Bardett  was  mar- 

ried to  her  then ;  but  he  has  n't  brought  her 
home  yet;  they  are  traveling." 

"  Who  told  you  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Marks,  the  housekeeper.  I  went  round 
yesterday  to  see  if  May  was  at  home." 

"  And  you  saw  May  ?  " 

"No;  she  was  n't  expected  until  the  late 
afternoon  train." 

"  And  she  did  n't  know  anything  about  the 
stepmother  until  a  week  ago  ?  " 

"Two  weeks  ago;  a  week  before  the  marriage." 

"  Well,  I  call  that  downright  cruel.  If  it  was 
my  father  1  "  And  Cathy  Bond  stamped  a  little 
foot  on  the  floor  with  an  emphasis  that  spoke 
unutterable  things.  Two  or  three  more  girls 
who  had  just  entered  the  school-room  came  up 
at  this  demonstration  with  a  "  What 's  the  matter, 
Cathy  ?  "  And  the  matter  was  told  over  again 
with  a  new  chorus  of  "  ohs  "  and  "  ahs  "  and 
'•  poor  Mays."  There  was  only  one  disagreeing 
voice  —  a  soft  little  voice  that  broke  into  the 
"  ohs  "  and  "  ahs,"  saving  :  "  Stepmothers  are 
verv  nice  sometimes.     I  have  a  cousin  —  " 



"  Nice!"  cried  Cathy,  and  then  directly  went 
off  in  a  flow  of  wild  talk,  a  string  of  stories  all 
going  to  show  that  stepmothers  were  anything 
but  nice. 

At  the  first  hint  of  a  pause,  the  little  soft  voice 
began  again : 

"  I  have  a  cousin  —  "  but  Cathy  had  mounted 
her  hobby-horse  of  prejudice,  and  flashed  out: 

"  Oh,  bother  your  cousin,  Susy  Morris;  I  know 
two  girls  intiiitately,  who  have  stepmothers,  and 
they  can't  do  anything,  not  anything,  they  want 
to  do ! " 

"Who,  the  stepmothers?"  asked  Joanna 

"  No ;  the  girls,  of  course,"  answered  Cathy 
rather  crossly  ;  "  and  they  used  to  have  every- 
thing, and  do  just  exactly  as  they  pleased.  Oh, 
you  need  n't  talk  to  me  about  stepmothers ;  they 
interfere  between  the  fathers  and  children,  and 
are  a  meddling,  selfish  set." 

As  Cathy  paused  to  take  breath,  Susy  promptly 
struck  in  with,  "  I  have  a  cousin  — "  But  a 
shout  of  laughter  interrupted,  and  Joanna  Macy 
repeated,  with  merry  mockery,"  I  have  a  cousin"; 
then,  turning  and  clutching  Susy  in  a  swift  em- 
brace, she  cried  out : 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  queer,  funny  little  thing  with 
your  running  chorus,  '  I  have  a  cousin.'  But 
tell  us  about  her ;  come,  Susy  has  the  floor  — 
Susy  's  going  to  tell  us  about  the  cou.sin.  If 
Cathy  interrupts,  we  '11  put  her  out.  Now,, 
begin  —  '  I  have  a  cousin.'  " 

Susy  blushed  a  little,  but  without  any  sign  of 
annoyance  unhesitatingly  took  up  the  words, 
"  I  have  a  cousin,"  and  went  on  with  her 

It  was  a  sweet  little  story  of  kindness  and 
comfort  and  happiness  brought  into  a  lonely 
home  to  a  lonely  child,  by  a  sweet,  kind,  good 

But  it  did  not  make  the  impression  it  ought 
to  have  made  upon  the  girl  listeners,  for  Cathy's 
stormy  talk  of  injustice  and  cruelty  had  blown 
into  their  minds  a  tangle  of  wild  thoughts,  just 
as  a  storm  in  nature  blows  all  the  wild  weeds 
and  sticks  and  stones  into  a  tangle  of  dust  and 
dirt  that  confuses  and  blinds  one. 

Susy,  who  appeared  so  slow  and  placid,  had  a 
keen  perception  of  some  things.  Her  mind  was 
like  a  Httle  clear  lake  through  which  she  seemed 
Vol.  XVII.— 18. 

to  look  and  see  the  truth.  Through  this  clear 
little  lake  she  now  looked  and  saw  that  not  one 
of  these  girls,  not  even  Joanna  whom  she  spe- 
cially loved,  received  her  story  with  much  belief. 
It  was  not  that  they  thought  she  was  willfully 
telling  what  was  not  true,  but  they  were  saying 
to  themselves : 

"  Oh,  that  is  only  Susy's  easy,  pleasant  way  of 
taking  people.  Susy  does  n't  understand."  But 
Susy  did  understand  more  than  they  imagined, 
and  it  was  out  of  this  understanding  that  she 
started  up  suddenly  with  a  quicker  motion  than 
was  common  with  her,  and  in  a  quicker  tone 
cried  out : 

"  My  father  says  that  prejudice  makes  people 
deaf  and  blind."  She  paused  a  second,  gave  a 
short  sigh,  and  dropping  into  her  ordinary  man- 
ner, and  in  her  little,  soft,  drawling  voice,  she 
added,  "  If  't  would  only  make  'em  dumb  't 
would  be  all  right." 

The  girls  were  used  to  Susy's  wise  speeches, 
spoken  in  that  soft  voice  of  hers,  and  with  a  curi- 
ous twist  to  the  letter  r,  which  she  could  n't  pro- 
nounce without  giving  to  it  a  half  sound  of  w, 
and  they  generally  laughed,  not  at  the  speeches 
alone,  but  at  the  quaint  combination  of  the 
speeches  and  Susy  together.  As  a  matter  of 
habit  they  laughed  now,  but  Joanna  had  caught 
the  spirit  of  the  speech,  and  she  followed  the 
laugh  by  saying : 

"  Susy  is  right ;  prejudice  does  make  us  deaf 
and  blind,  and  it  is  a  pity  we  could  n't  be  dumb 
too,  instead  of  talking  such  stuff!  What  do  7ue 
know  really  about  stepmothers  ?  " 

"  We  know  what  everybody  has  always  said," 
struck  in  Cathy. 

"  Everybody  is  always  saying  everything." 

"  But  there  are  the  Longley  girls — my  two 
friends  I  told  you  of." 

"  And  there  is  Susy's  cousin  that 's  the  other 
side.  I  '11  set  that  against  the  Longlegs,  or  what- 
ever is  their  name." 

"  Well,  I  sha'n't.  I  shall  never  beheve  in  step- 
mothers ;  I  know — " 

A  quick  "hush"  from  Joanna  arrested  Cathy's 
sentence.  She  looked  up.  They  all  looked  up, 
and  there  was  May  Bardett,  not  three  feet  away  ! 
How  long  had  she  been  there  ?  How  much  had 
she  heard  ?  Perhaps  she  had  just  come  in  and 
had  heard  nothing.   But  she  was  standing  at  her 




desk,  and  her  books  were  unstrapped  and  set  in 
order.  She  must  have  heard  something  in  this 
time.  Joanna  could  have  stamped  with  vex- 
ation at  herself,  and  at  the  others.  Oh,  why, 
why,  had  she — had  they  all — been  so  careless  ? 
But  something  must  be  done.  Somebody  must 
go  forward  and  speak  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Joanna  started  on  this  errand,  but 
Cathy  was  before  her,  and  in  the  next  moment, 
flinging  her  arms  about  May,  was  saying  in  an 
impressive,  pitying  accent : 

"  Oh,  May,  we  have  heard  all  about  it,  and 
we  are  so  sorry." 

May  Bartlett  was  a  proud  girl,  who  generally 
held  her  private  aftairs  in  a  good  deal  of  reserve, 
but  this  sudden  demonstration  at  this  time  was 
too  much  for  her  self-control,  and  she  burst  into 
tears.  Joanna  could  have  beaten  Cathy.  Why 
could  n't  she  have  greeted  May  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  ?  But  that  was  just  like  Cathy 
to  make  a  scene. 

The  girls  came  forward  awkwardly  after  this, 
and  there  was  a  general  uncomfortable  time, 
until  Susy  suddenly  burst  out  in  her  odd  litde 

"  Oh,  May  's  got  a  straight  bang  !  " 

The  girls  giggled,  Joanna  caught  Susy  in  a 
little  hug,  and  the  tragic  atmosphere  was  re- 

Chapter  II. 

A  WEEK,  later.  May  Bartlett  was  standing  at 
the  parlor  window  waiting  for  her  father  and  his 
new  wife,  her  stepmother. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  the  depot  to  meet 
them?"  asked  Mrs.  Marks. 

May  had  colored  up  angrily  at  this  question, 
and  a  hot  rush  of  tears  had  blinded  her  eyes  as 
she  turned  away  without  answering.  But  it  was  a 
natural  question  for  Mrs.  Marks  to  ask,  for  May 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting  her  father  at 
the  pretty  little  suburban  station  almost  every 
afternoon  on  his  return  from  the  city.  "  But 
meet  t/tein  at  the  depot!  How  could  Mrs. 
Marks  speak  of  such  a  thing,"  the  girl  thought 

Tick,  tack,  tick,  tack,  went  the  litrie  cathedral 
clock  on  the  mantel.  In  fifteen  minutes  the 
train  would  be  in,  and  in  five,  ten  minutes  more 
the  carriage  would  be  at  the  door,  and  then  — 

and  then — the  tears  that  May  had  tried  to  keep 
under  control  suddenly  overflowed,  as  she  im- 
agined the  change  that  was  coming.  Eight 
weeks  ago,  when  she  had  gone  away  with  her 
Aunt  Mary  to  the  sea-shore  to  spend  her  vaca- 
tion. May  had  planned  what  she  would  do  in 
the  autumn.  In  the  first  place  she  would  have 
a  party — a  garden-party,  for  September  was  a 
lovely  month  at  Hillside,  and  her  father  had 
promised  her  a  garden-party  ever  since  they 
had  taken  possession  of  their  new  house  there, 
three  years  ago.  She  would  invite  all  the  girls 
of  her  set  at  the  Hillside  seminary,  and  as  many 
of  her  friends  in  town  —  and  by  "town"  she 
meant  Boston,  which  was  only  six  miles  away 
—  as  had  returned  from  their  summer  jaunts. 
Then  she  would  persuade  her  father  to  buy  her 
a  village  wagon.  She  could  drive  very  well,  as 
he  himself  had  said,  and  she  could  bring  him 
from  the  station  quite  as  well  in  a  village  wagon 
as  in  the  shabby  old  phaeton  which  she  \vas  per- 
mitted to  use,  when  Patrick  was  too  busy  to  go 
with  the  dog-cart.  Yes,  a  party  and  a  dear  little 
duck  of  a  wagon  like  Marion  Grant's,  and  then, 
and  then, — but  at  this  point  of  her  recollection 
her  tears  flowed  afresh,  for  of  course  all  these 
pretty  plans  must  go,  with  the  coming  of  the  new 
mother — no,  the  stepmother;  she  would  never, 
never  call  her  mother!  Her  mother ! —  she  looked 
up  at  the  portrait  that  hung  above  the  little  clock 
— the  portrait  of  a  fair  sweet-faced  woman  with 
pleasant  eyes  that  seemed  to  follow  you  about 
with  a  laugh  in  them.  She  died  five  years  ago, 
when  May  was  nine  years  old,  but  May  could 
almost  fancy  she  heard  her  mother  saying  as 
those  laughing  eyes  met  her  daughter's: 

"  What  's  the  matter  with  the  litde  daughter 
now  ?  " 

A  sob  caught  in  the  daughter's  throat  here, 
and  she  cried  aloud,  "  Oh,  Mamma,  Mamma, 
it  's  no  small  thing  that  's  the  matter  now,  but 
a  ver}',  very  great  thing.  It  's  somebody  com- 
ing to  take  your  place — your  place  and  mine. 
Mamma."  But  if  May  had  a  half  fancy  that 
the  eyes  would  look  different,  would  change 
their  merry  expression  at  this,  she  was  mistaken. 
As  the  yellow  afternoon  sun  sent  a  bright  dan- 
cing ray  across  the  canvas,  the  eyes  seemed  to 
dance  with  it,  in  the  happiest  possible  way,  and 
tick,  tack,   tick,  tack,  the  litde  clock  sent  its 



yellow  pendulum  back  and  forth  in  the  sun- 
shine. From  the  portrait,  May  glanced  at  the 
clock-face.  Why,  why,  why !  the  fifteen  min- 
utes had  passed,  and  so  absorbed  had  she  been 
in  her  thoughts,  she  had  not  heard  the  locomo- 
tive whistle.  How  very  odd.  She  ran  out  of 
the  room,  and  out  of  the  hall  upon  the  piazza. 
The  train  must  have  arrived,  and  in  five  min- 
utes more  she  would  hear  the  carriage.  From 
end  to  end  she  paced  slowly  up  and  down. 
How  sweet  the  honeysuckle  smelled,  and  the 
late  lilies  were  all  red  and  gold  bloom.  Lean- 
ing over  the  railing  she  broke  one  from  its  stem 
and  pinned  it  in  her  dress ;  as  she  did  so  she 
could  see  the  clock  through  the  open  window. 
Not  only  five,  but  ten  minutes  had  gone.  She 
stopped  and  listened.  Was  that  the  carriage  ? 
No.  Five  minutes  more.  The  train  could  n't 
have  arrived.  What  luas  the  matter  ?  Tick, 
tack,  tick,  tack,  another  five  minutes  went  by 
and  Mrs.  Marks  came  out  on  the  piazza. 

"  My  dear,  I  never  knew  this  train  to  be 
late,"  she  said  anxiously.  Then  May's  endur- 
ance gave  way,  and  catching  her  hat  from  the 
hall  stand  she  ran  down  the  steps,  calling  back 
as  she  went : 

"  I  'm  going  to  the  depot,  Mrs.  Marks,  to  see 
if  anything  has  been  heard.    I  can't  wait  here." 

"  That  's  right,  dearie  ;  you  '11  feel  better  to 
go,  but  I  would  n't  worry  —  there  's  been  some 
delay  somewhere,  that  's  all." 

"  Some  delay  somewhere  !  "  May  -thought  of 
the  delay  that  had  occurred  on  the  Boston  and 
Providence  road  the  year  before,  when  the  Ros- 
lindale  bridge  had  given  way,  and  hundreds  of 
people  had  gone  down  with  it.  Her  heart 
seemed  to  beat  up  into  her  throat,  to  stop  her 
voice,  and  almost  her  breath.  She  could  not 
frame  the  words  to  ask  a  question  when  she  en- 
tered the  depot,  but  she  heard  some  one  say, 
"  There  's  been  an  accident."  She  lost  the 
next  sentence,  and  caught  only  the  last  words, 
" —  but  the  track  is  clear  now,  and  the  train  has 

Walking  to  the  further  end  of  the  platform, 
away  from  all  the  people,  poor  May  sat  down 
upon  a  baggage-truck  to  watch  and  wait.  As 
she  sat  there  she  imagined  the  worst  that  could 
have  happened.  Perhaps  her  father  was  badly 
hurt,   perhaps  he    was   killed,   and  she  would 

never  see  him  again;  and  at  the  very  time, 
when  he  had  been  suffering,  perhaps  dying,  she 
had  been  having  hard  thoughts  of  him,  had 
blamed  him  for  what  he  had  done,  and  what  he 
had  not  done  —  for  marrying  again,  and  for  not 
telling  her  of  his  plans  until  the  last  moment. 
She  grew  hot,  then  cold,  as  she  thought  of  the 
words  she  had  said  to  Cathy  Bond  —  of  how 
she  had  joined  her  in  calling  him  unkind,  and 
even  cruel.  Oh,  if  only  he  came  back  alive,  so 
that  she  could  show  him  how  she  loved  him  !  If 
only  he  came  back  she  would  not  do  any  of  the 
disagreeable  things  she  had  declared  to  Cathy 
Bond  that  she  would  do.  She  would  —  yes, 
she  would  —  even  kiss  her  stepmother  when  she 
met  her.  She  had  said  to  Cathy  only  yester- 
day, "  I  shall  not  kiss  her,  and  I  shall  be  very 
stiff  and  cold  to  both  of  them."  To  I'oth  of 
them!  Perhaps,  perhaps  — 

In  another  moment  May  would  have  lost  all 
control  of  herself  and  burst  out  crying,  if  the 
sound  of  a  long  shrill  whistle  had  not  roused 
her  to  the  immediate  present.  As  she  heard 
it,  she  jumped  to  her  feet  and  ran  up  the  plat- 

Yes,  there  was  the  train  rounding  the  curve. 
In  a  minute  she  would  know  —  what  ?  She 
crowded  her  way  through  the  throng  of  people 
to  the  front.  Swifdy,  then  slackening  in  speed, 
the  cars  roll  in  and  come  to  a  full  stop.  There 
are  faces  at  the  windows,  there  are  voices  say- 
ing, "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  " ;  but  not  the  face, 
not  the  voice  she  is  longing  for.  She  turns  sick, 
cold,  and  dizzy,  and  staggers  backward  with  an 
attempt  to  get  away  out  of  this  eager  throng 
that  seems  so  happy.  Then  it  is  that  somebody 

"  Why,  here  she  is,  now !  " 

She  lifts  her  head,  and  there  he  is — her  hand- 
some, young-looking  father,  sound  and  well  and 
smiling  down  upon  her. 

"  O  Papa,  Papa !  I  thought  you  were  killed 
—  the  train  was  so  late,  and  they  said — they 

"  My  dear  child  !  There,  there,  don't — don't 
cry.  It  's  all  right  you  see.  Here,  Margaret, 
here 's  this  litde  girl  has  been  frightened  half  out 
of  her  wits  at  the  delay — thought  I  was  killed." 

May  made  a  great  effort  to  be  calm,  but  the 
reaction  was  so  swift  it  was  hard  work,  and  her 



pale  face  and  tremulous  lips  were  expressive  of 
her  nervousness  as  she  looked  up  to  meet  her 
stepmother's  glance.  It  was  not  a  smiling 
glance  like  her  father's,  but  May  found  it  easier 
to  meet  for  that  reason.  She  knew  her  father 
always  dreaded  what  he  called  "  a  scene,"  and 
had  always  discouraged  any  outbreaks  either  of 
tears  or  excited  laughter ;  and  with  this  knowl- 
edge she  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  her 
twitching  lips  and  pallid  face  were  annoying 
him  at  that  moment.  But  this  serious  glance 
that  met  her,  and  the  quiet  remark,  "I  don't 
wonder  that  you  were  frightened  at  such  a  de- 
lay ;  /  should  have  been  very  much  frightened 
in  your  place,"  gave  May  a  litde  time  to  re- 
cover herself,  and  then  the  quiet  voice  went  on, 
asking  no  questions,  but  speaking  of  the  causes 
of  the  delay,  that  did  not,  it  seemed,  involve 
much  danger,  being  merely  an  accident  of  ob- 
struction by  the  breaking  down  of  a  freight-car, 
of  which  warning  was  duly  given  from  station 
to  stadon. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  something  dreadful," 
May  broke  forth  at  this.  "I  heard  some  one 
say  something  about  an  accident,  and  I  was  too 
frightened  to  ask  a  question  myself." 

"  And  so  worked  yourself  up  into  a  fever 
with  your  imagination  as  usual,  my  dear,"  her 
father  responded,  half  laughing. 

"  She  did  tlie  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
for  a  girl.  I  think  I  should  have  done  the  same 
thing,"  the  quiet  voice  here  said,  with  an  easy 
tone  of  bright  decision. 

"  Oh,  you  !  I  dare  say.  I  've  a  pair  of  you,  I 

May  looked  at  her  father  in  surprise.  He 
looked  back  at  her  with  a  funny  Kttle  grimace. 

"  Yes,  May,  she  's  just  such  another  goose  as 
you  are  in  some  things." 

May  caught  the  smile  upon  her  stepmother's 
face.  Her  stepmother !  In  the  excitement  she 
had  for  the  moment  forgotten  the  stepmother. 
She  regarded  her  now  for  the  first  time  with  ob- 
serving eyes.     What  did  she  see  ? 

A  tall  slender  young  woman,  with  brunette 
coloring,  and  an  air  of  ease  and  elegance  about 
her.  May  glanced  across  at  her  father.  How 
happy  he  seemed,  and  how  young  he  appeared  1 
But  he  must  be  a  great  deal  older  than  this  new 
wife  —  this  "Margaret."     He  had    gray  hairs, 

and  there  was  no  gray  in  that  dark  coil  and 
fluff"  under  the  small  stylish  bonnet.  May  took 
in  all  these  details  and  said  to  herself,  "  Why  did 
she  marry  him,  I  wonder  ?  "  Then  a  mischiev- 
ous little  spirit  whispered  that  her  father  was  a 
rich  man,  and  she  remembered  what  Cathy  Bond 
had  said  about  girls  marrying  for  money.  Alas ! 
for  May's  good  resolutions,  as  she  sat  waiting  for 
the  train  a  few  minutes  before.  If  her  father 
only  came  back  !  And  here  he  was,  full  of  life 
and  strength,  and  she  had  forgotten  already. 
If  he  only  came  back,  she  would  show  him  how 
she  loved  him,  she  would  even  —  kiss  her  step- 
mother when  she  met  her !  But  as  the  girl 
thought  of  this  last  duty  which  she  had  meant 
to  perform,  it  suddenly  came  over  her  that  she 
had  really  not  been  called  upon  to  perform  it — 
that  nobody  in  fact,  neither  her  father  nor  her 
stepmother,  had  seemed  to  expect  it.  Of  course 
everything  was  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  ex- 
citement of  the  occasion,  but,  nevertheless,  a 
feeling  of  chagrin  sent  a  flush  to  May's  cheek  at 
the  recollection,  and  then  a  swift  sharp  question 
stung  her,  "  Was  this  the  way  she  was  to  be  for- 
gotten by  them  ?  " 

Chapter    III. 

"  A  GARDEN-party  ?  Why  yes,  so  I  did  prom- 
ise you  a  garden-party  some  time.  I  remember, 
but  it  seems  to  me — it 's  rather  late  in  the  year, 
is  n't  it?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  not  if  I  set  it  for  next  week.  Hill- 
side is  lovely  in  September." 

"  Yes,  but  next  week  is  the  fourth  week  in 
September  —  pretty  late  in  the  month  to  count 
on  the  weather.  Margaret,"  and  Mr.  Bardett's 
voice  rose  a  little  louder  in  tone  as  he  called  to 
his  wife,  who  was  coming  down  one  of  the  gar- 
den walks  to  the  piazza  where  he  and  May  were 

"  Yes,"  responded  Margaret,  looking  up  from 
the  flowers  she  carried. 

"  Don't  you  think  the  fourth  week  in  Septem- 
ber is  rather  late  for  a  garden-party  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  late.  Why,  I  hope  you  are  not 
thinking  of  giving  a  garden-party,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Oh,  no  ;  it  was  May's  idea.  There,  you 
see  —  you  '11  have  to  wait  until  ne.xt  year,  my 
dear,"  turning  to  May. 




Margaret  lifted  her  head  quickly,  and  saw  a 
rebellious  expression  on  her  stepdaughter's  face. 
It  was  a  still,  cold  expression,  that  she  had  seen 
several  times  before  in  the  three  days  she  had 
been  at  Hillside.  Coming  forward  more  rapidly, 
she  said  easily  and  pleasantly  : 

"  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  think  of  a  garden- 
party  for  me,  but  it  is  rather  late,  you  know." 

Mr.  Bartlett  had  taken  up  his  newspaper,  and 
paid  no  heed  to  these  words.  May  sat  silent, 
her  chin  dropped  against  her  breast,  all  kinds 
of  mutinous  little  thoughts  in  her  mind,  tirst  and 
foremost  of  which  was,  "  She  thinks  everything 
is  to  be  for  her  .f" 

Mrs.  Bartlett  meanwhile  stood  regarding  the 
downbent  face  with  a  look  of  great  perple.xity, 
and  with  a  slight  flush  on  her  cheek.  The  flush 
deepened,  as  May  suddenly  jumped  from  her 
chair  and,  catching  up  her  school-satchel,  started 
off  down  the  walk  with  a  "  Good-bye,  Papa." 

Her  father  glanced  over  his  paper  with  a  look 
of  surprise.  It  was  not  May's  habit  to  go  away 
like  this,  without  a  good-bye  kiss.  He  was  about 
to  call  her  back,  when  he  saw  her  join  one  of 
her  school  friends  just  outside  the  gate.  In  a 
few  moments  the  matter  slipped  from  his  mind, 
in  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  political  news  he 
was  reading. 

It  was  Cathy  Bond  whom  May  had  joined. 
Cathy  was  full  of  a  lively  interest  in  the  new 
stepmother.  She  had  found  May  rather  re- 
served in  what  she  had  said  within  the  last  three 
days,  and  was  greatly  desirous  of  discovering 
the  "reason  why,"  of  seeing  for  herself  what  sort 
of  a  person  the  stepmother  was,  and  "  how  things 
were  going;"  but  her  little  plan  of  calling  for 
May  was  foiled  by  May's  joining  her  outside  the 
gate.  In  a  moment,  however,  she  saw,  with 
those  sharp  eyes  of  hers,  that  something  was 
very  much  amiss,  and  in  a  sympathetic  tone 
asked : 

"  What  is  it,  Maisie,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Matter  !  "  With  a  catch  in  her  breath,  May 
repeated  the  brief  conversation  about  the  garden- 
party.  The  reserve  of  the  last  few  days  had 
vanished.  Her  good  resolutions  had  blown  to 
the  winds.  But  it  was  only  to  Cathy  that  she 
spoke  directly.  Whether  Cathy  would  have  had 
the  strength  to  have  been  silent  if  May  had  asked 
her,  it  is  impossible  to  tell.     But  May  did  not 

ask  her, — perhaps  in  her  resentment  she  did  n't 
care,  perhaps  she  did  n't  think ;  at  any  rate  Cathy 
did  not  keep  silent,  and  by  the  afternoon  recess 
all  the  girls  knew  the  story  of  the  garden-party 
as  they  had  heard  it  from  Cathy  Bond. 

Even  Joanna  Macy  was  stirred  to  indignation 
by  this  story. 

"  She  must  be  conceited  to  think  the  party 
could  only  be  for  her.  What  had  May  to  do 
with  getting  up  a  garden-party  for  her  step- 
mother ?  " 

Susy  Morris,  who  heard  the  indignant  tone  of 
Joanna's  voice,  wanted  to  know  What  it  meant. 

"  Oh,  it  means,"  cried  Joanna,  "  that  Cathy 
was  n't  far  wrong  about  the  stepmother";  and 
then  Joanna  repeated  the  story,  as  she  had 
heard  it  from  Cathy,  that  May  had  asked  her 
father  that  morning  if  she  might  have  the  garden- 
party  he  had  promised  her,  and  that  her  step- 
mother had  interfered  and  said  that,  though  she 
was  much  obliged  to  May  for  thinking  of  giving 
a  garden-party  for  her,  that  it  was  decidedly  too 
late  for  it,  and  that  she  hoped  it  would  not  be 
thought  of  any  more  !  "  The  idea,"  concluded 
Joanna,  "  of  her  taking  it  for  granted  that  the 
party  must  be  for  her — that  May,  a  girl  of  four- 
teen, would  think  of  getting  up  any  kind  of  a 
party  for  her !  I  never  heard  anything  so  con- 
ceited. Well?"  as  Susy's  small  face  began  to 
wrinkle  up  with  a  puzzled  frown,  "  say  it  out, 
Susy,  whatever  it  is  !  " 

"  My  cousin — " 

Joanna  shouted  with  laughter.  ' 

"Oh,  Susy,  that  cousin  of  yours!" 

But  Susy  went  on :  "  My  cousin  was  n't  but 
fifteen,  and  she  asked  her  father  to  make  a  sail- 
ing party  for  Iier  stepmother.  Perhaps  May's 
stepmother  thought  that  May  was  just  asking 
for  the  party  in  the  same  way,  as  a  kind  of 
welcome,  you  know.  She  might  have  misun- 
derstood, or  she  might  not  have  heard  the 
whole, — don't  you  see?" 

"  No,  I  don't  see.  They  were  all  on  the 
piazza  talking ;  and  May  had  distinctly  asked 
her  father  if  she  might  give  to  the  school-girls 
the  garden-party  that  he  had  promised  that  she 
might.  Now,  Miss  Susy,  what  have  )'ou  to 
say  ?  " 

"  Notliing,  only  it  does  seem  queer,  if  all 
this  was   said  na;ht  out  before  the  stepmother. 




that  she  should  have  thought  the  party  was  for 
her,  and  should  have  thanked  May.  When  she 
did  that,  why  did  n't  May  tell  her  how  it  was 
—  or  why  didn't  Mr.  Bardett  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Susy,  you  will  make  a  first-class  lawyer 
if  you  live  to  grow  up,"  was  Joanna's  laughing 
reply  to  this.  But,  though  Joanna  laughed, 
Susy's  words  set  her  to  thinking  that  perhaps 
there  was  a  mistake  somewhere,  and  suddenly 
she  thought  of  something  her  mother  had  said 
to  her  once  when  she  had  repeated  an  unkind 
story  to  her :  "  My  dear,  a  story  twice  told  is 
two  stories ;  and  three  times  told,  the  truth  is 
pretty  well  lost  sight  of" 

But  when  Joanna  tried  to  take  this  ground 
with  the  girls,  she  could  get  no  hearing,  for 
Cathy  Bond  was  a  power  at  the  Hillside  school, 
with  her  quick  sympathies,  and  her  quick,  glib 
way  of  expressing  them.  To  May,  this  quick, 
ghb  way  had  always  been  attractive ;  it  was  still 
more  so  now,  when  she  found  it  ranged  so 
warmly  on  her  side.  Yet  if  she  had  heard 
Cathy's  repetition  of  her  account  of  the  garden- 
party  conversation,  I  think  she  would  have  been 
a  little  startled,  but  she  did  not  hear  it,  and  so 
matters  went  on  from  bad  to  worse;  that  is,  the 
story  grew  and  grew,  and  one  girl  and  another 
took  up  what  they  called  poor  May's  cause, 
and  looked,  if  they  did  not  speak,  their  pit)', 
until  May  became  such  a  center  of  interest  that 
she  could  not  but  be  affected  by  it,  could  not 
but  feel  that  she  had  reason  to  be  very  un- 
happy. Yet,  in  spite  of  this  feeling,  there  was 
n't  so  much  outward  indication  of  it  as  one 
might  have  expected. 

Joanna  remarked  upon  this  one  day  to  Cathy, 
declaring  that,  for  her  part,  she  thought  that 
May  seemed  to  look  very  cheerful  under  the 

"  Cheerful !  "  exclaimed  Cathy  tragically. 
"  Why  she 's  just  wretched,  but  she 's  keeping 
up ;  you  know  they  are  having  no  end  of  giddy 
goings-on  up  there." 

"  Up  where  ?  " 

"Why,  at  the  Bardetts'.  Lots  of  people  are 
calling,  and  it  seems  that  Mrs.  Bartlett  has  any 
quantity  of  friends  and  relatives  in  Boston,  and 
they  are  driving  out  to  see  her  and  having  five 
o'clock  tea  with  her,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  And  May  is  in  it  all  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  be  sure.  It 's  a  trial  to  her,  of  course, 
and  it 's  as  much  as  she  can  do  to  keep  up." 

"  A  iria/  to  her.  Why  is  it  a  trial  to  her  ?  " 
asked  Joanna,  imitating  Cathy's  grown-up  words 
and  ways. 

Cathy  flamed  up. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  have  any  feeling,  Joanna. 
Don't  you  suppose  she  thinks  of  her  own  mother 
while  these  things  are  going  on  ?  " 

This  was  too  much  for  Joanna's  keen  common 
sense,  and  she  laughed  outright. 

"  Things  going  on !  Calling,  and  drinking 
tea  !     Oh,  Cathy  !  " 

"  Well,  but  — but  —  it  is  n't  just  ordinary  call- 
ing ;  it  's  like  —  like  parties,"  answered  Cathy, 
flushing  and  stammering. 

"And  has  n't  Mr.  Bartlett  had  whist-parties 
and  dinner-parties  many  a  time  ?  " 

"  They  were  gentlemen's  parties." 

"Well,  did  n't  May's  Aunt  Mary  — her 
mother's  own  sister  —  have  parties  when  she 
was  staying  there,  and,"  triumphantly,  "  has  n't 
May  herself  had  a  birthday-party  every  year 
since  her  mother  died  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  that 's  different.  This  is  a  stranger 
who  comes  to  take  her  mother's  place." 

"  She  's  a  stranger  to  May ;  but  Mr.  Bardett 
has  married  this  stranger  just  as  he  married 
May's  mother." 

"  Yes,  and  I  think  it  was  horrid  for  him  to 
do  so." 

"  Oh,  Cathy,  lots  of  people  marry  again  —  the 
nicest  and  best  of  people." 

"  Well,  I  think  it  is  perfectly  dreadful,  when 
there  are  children,  to  give  them  a  strange  woman 
in  the  place  of  their  mother.  It  is  just  as  selfish 
as  it  can  be." 

"  But,  Cathy,  there  are  good  stepmothers  as 
well  as  bad  ones.  Why,  stepmothers  are  just 
like  other  people." 

"  Yes,  before  they  are  stepmothers  ;  but  when 
they  step  into  own  mothers'  places,  they  — 
they — " 

As  Cathy  hesitated,  Joanna  laughingly  broke 
in  with,  "They  become  wicked  wolves,  who  are 
all  ready  to  worry  and  devour  their  poor  vic- 
tims !  "  Cathy  could  not  help  joining  a  little  in 
Joanna's  laugh ;  but  she  said,  almost  in  the  next 
breath : 

"  Oh,  you  can  make  fun,  Joanna,  as  much  as 




you  like,  but  you  '11  never  make  7ne  believe  in 
stepmothers  !  " 

Just  when  Cathy  was  saying  this,  just  when 
Joanna  was  wrinkling  up  her  forehead  and  want- 
ing to  say  impatiently,  "  Oh,  you  little  pig  of 
prejudice !  "  around  the  corner,  where  they  stood 
talking,  there  suddenly  appeared  a  big  open  car- 
riage, full  of  gayly  dressed  people. 

"  There  she  is !  "  whispered  Cathy,  pointing 
with  a  nod  of  her  head  to  a  lady  who  was  smil- 
ingly speaking  to  the  gentleman  sitting  next  to 

Joanna  craned  her  neck  forward  eagerly. 
This  was  her  first  glimpse  of  the  stepmother. 

"  Why,  she  's  a  beauty  !  "  she  cried  out  to 
Cathy ;  "  and  she  looks  like  a  girl !  But 
where  's  May,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  where  's  May  ?  You  see  she 
is  n't  there.  I  suppose  she  was  n't  wanted  — 
there  was  n't  room  for  her,"  answered  Cathy 

But  presently  round  the  corner  they  heard 
again  a  Hght  roll  of  wheels  on  the  smooth  road, 
and  there  appeared  another  carriage.    It  was  a 

litde  yellow  wagon, —  a  village  wagon, —  and  in 
it  were  May  Bartlett  and  a  young  girl  about  her 
own  age.  May  was  driving.  She  looked  more 
than  cheerful ;  she  looked  as  if  she  was  enjoying 
herself  very  much,  and  she  was  so  occupied  that 
she  failed  to  see  her  two  school  friends  as  she 
drove  by. 

Joanna  laughed. 

"  That  's  what  you  call  '  keeping  up,'  I  sup- 
pose, Cathy,"  she  said  slyly. 

Cathy  did  n't  answer. 

"  And  she  has  got  the  village  wagon,  after  all. 
You  were  perfectly  sure  she  would  n't  get  it, 
you  know." 

"  Well,  May  told  me  that  when  she  asked  her 
father  for  it,  he  said  he  did  n't  believe  he  could 
afford  it  now,  and  her  stepmother  flushed  up 
and  looked  at  him  so  queerly,  as  if  she  did  n't 
like  it,  and  so,  of  course.  May  thought  that  was 
the  end  of  it.  But  I  suppose  when  he  came  to 
think  it  over  he  was  ashamed  not  to  get  it  for 

Joanna  wrinkled  up  her  forehead  again,  but 
she  kept  her  thoughts  to  herself. 

f  To  be  continued, ) 


By  S.  Walter  Norris. 

OME  tiny  elves,  one  evening,  grew 

mischievous,  it  seems. 
And  broke  into  the  store-room  where 

the  Sand-man  keeps  his  dreams. 
And  gathered  up  whole  armfuls  of 

dreams  all  bright  and  sweet. 
And   started    forth   to   peddle   them 

a-down  the  village  street. 

Oh,  you  would  never,  never  guess  how  queerly  these  dreams  sold; 
Why,  nearly  all  the  youngest  folk  bought  dreams  of  being  old ; 
And  one  wee  chap  in  curls  and  kilts,  a  gentle  little  thing. 
Invested  in  a  dream  about  an  awful  [jirate  king ; 



A  maid,  who  thought  her  pretty  name  old-fashioned  and  absurd, 
Bought  dreams  of  names  the  longest  and  the  queerest  ever  heard ; 
And,  strange  to  say,  a  lad,  who  owned  all  sorts  of  costly  toys, 
Bought  dreams  of  selUng  papers  \vith  the  raggedest  of  boys. 

And  then  a  dream  of  summer  and  a  barefoot  boy  at  play 

Was  bought  up  very  quickly  by  a  gentleman  quite  gray ; 

And  one  old  lady — smiling  through  the  grief  she  tried  to  hide — 

Bought  bright  and  tender  visions  of  a  little  girl  who  died. 

A  ragged  little  beggar  girl,  with  weary,  wistful  gaze, 
Soon  chose  a  Cinderella  dream,  with  jewels  all  ablaze — 
Well,  it  was  n't  many  minutes  from  the  time  they  came  in  sight 
Before  the  dreams  were  all  sold  out  and  the  elves  had  taken  flight. 


<- ,!>  ever  a "v/or Id    coli 

cy  covered    the^rs^SJ   in.  (Ke  meado 
zy  coK'evcd.    fnc   $ca^c  by  tni 
.J.  cou./d  enter  rve.ve5»   a.  wDod/ar\d   p 
lUt  you    /elt    2vcro5>  ^pur  -/"ace 
|iK<£  cfirv^ind"    o/"  a    cobweb 
ike    a  Thread  o/^  -/^iJmy  l&.ce- 




i^^  '  ow  tKe  dearest  q^-^^ac-pld  wjama 

Ma-d  brujlied   a^d^^ 

^^^^^>^nd   polisked    arvd    rubbed  ,r^*.^'ri 

"^Z  V"%=^ 

Vou  XVTI.—  19. 

^  sKe   5©>t   dowrv  to  rejt  on  IK^  door-s^orve, 

jV\/"itk  Kcr  (orvo'-Kandlecl    broom   in  Ken  hzynd, 

^L  Kcr  eyc>    vvcrvt    tKouy'kj/ixlk^   v/andermd 
^^way    o\/e.r   S^'^  a.r\d    land  . 
,e  58«.w  <Kc  wcLs   lf^  tKc   n\cev.o(.ow, 
^^^ike  noted  the  wet^   on  /Ke  se<^^, 
g^^nd  tKe    do>3a.mer  tKreadj    that    /'/oatcd 
:^==^^]^pkiween.  ~kcr  anel    tKe   Kedde.  .  .    ^/ 

%/Ken  — 
Jllut    col 

;  nc»t   (did   weimSi**  iKoo)^  Kcrkead 
*:i^nd    jadly    revijed    Kcr  cycs. 

ibwebs    m  the   sKie5  !         ,      It         \' %^__,f\^r\y^'yi-      ^*)^,      '. 
/I'lms   o/ laee  ^ /^■^'''fi,  . :'  '       ''I'r-  '^' 

fei'Ke  yllms   o/*  laee 

"TXey  lay   on    tKeykce 
Q^'  tKeykr  ^  Kee^venly  b/ae  , 
.^^\d    texndlcd    a.nd  ^tt^'r^        .  •■" 

"Xtll.    even.   tKc^^uPk'-: 

v^Ou.ld.nt"  —  Ir-y  a.5  Kc  midht  — 




n  ^Kc,— tKat    dea.r 
%^LtK  a  g'lance  o/'  Ker  keen,  dark  ey<jX|. 
iKalt    1   ioOe    away   my  time  on  eartn,    ,J 

^  ay    my 

%^{tK  cobwebs    in   tKe    iky_J^ 

\e  wcrxt    to  tKe  ,^^et\  of  "^oiKarrx  , 
1^^^%    1  Kree  wi>e    meA   Wene  tKey , 

I  Key  were   5c|u©a'ir\cf  tKe  cfrcle  every  one 
VVitk  tKree    \or\d    p'bes    o/T  cley  . 

"^  wKo    Svre  Qjb\[  tKe  vvi^e  , 

Help  rwe:  ] 


To    h'a^vei    To-dei^' 



Up  to  tKc  /&.r   o/^  5ki"c3 

«  >^ 

Key  looked  E.t  tkeir  cii*ciej,tKc_y  looKecf    s.t  t/\e  c( 
y^rxd   \\'llc(    \A/a,3  ea<_K  ju/\ker\  eye  , 

3"-*^^   rvevcr  ev   word 
Tke  Qi\ik  WomaA  Keard 

«^«"    S^^"^^    ^  marter    o/'  #y-&r\d-^y,;'" 

(     T*''     DoAt    S'^  tkere    ar\d    smile  ,  -» 

f^    Corrxe  ifvovv  n-ie  tKe  wfvy  to  tKe^Ky 
''  •    .    .    B uit  tKe  ^^y\  -on  tke  f t,7e 
(_orvti'nu.cci  to  j;ni/e 
■■.y^\y      -r\n.d  anjvvered   Kcr  ^y-Sknd-Hy  . 


ow  l^tcr ,  cfood  J%per  'your  pi'cK/e  preset 
J^Ajxd   Kcfp  mc  up  to  tKc  jky  ,'    " 
Dut  Ke  (ookeci  at"   Kij  peppers,  tKere  vva3  n/^  a  JoecK 


I  do  to  tKe  Parrve  .dowrA   under  rr\e 
If"  5Ke  cz^n  l\cla   mc  I  know  ^ke  will    , 
Bu-t  tKo  trutfyli/   (0ld  %^man    wa^  maKmcJ  a  pie 
And  3ke  rolled  ou.t    tke  crujt.and  )aid.  ^y-andj 



lame  sicrAed 

'^CBKcre  13  rvorvc   ofvyzn-\zd{,  tke  (y      _ 
"Wko  will  Kelp  me  up  to  the.  S^v/. 
ey  are  all  too  busy  or  ia5y  to  jay 
/\.  vx^ord   save  JPy-and-^y  ! 
o  to  my  rveicfnbor  tke  ^ramble  -hujh  AT\ar^ 
CKe  man.  30  vvorv-drou)  ^^'S^  •^-^^-'^'^^^^^h^ 
He  Know5  n\e-vV(e^l| 

A.rv.d  Ke  l(  3urely  tell 
Me  tke  way    &.t    least    tro  tke  ikies  '    "'^'''■''' 


put  orv  Ker  beautiVxii  cTreerv  <?il?v3k 
r\di  started,  broorrv   m  Karvol  , 
tKc  hou^e  o/^Kcr  neicrKbof  tKe  "Birarnble- 
mile   aweny  Over  tke   5'a.nd  .     I  b^sK 


^  /■ 

arv    o 


^reymoie^  .-^ 

O  Src^mb|e-bu3K<^ar^   I      ^"''^S 

X^t'wJ G  '/^'^'^  Jo    worvdrou5   wi^e  !       ' 
^^l     \a/i|I   you.  tell   rvAC  tke   wevy 
\Jj'i'j  ^   nxu^t   trevvel     lo-diay  »j    / 


ritl\cc,tcll  fr\e  W'\/ 


Till    tkou.  tKe  piace    kast   /buixd 
■\crc  tNc'^s^iAbow  ladder  tKat  rcacKe^  tKe  skieS 
^e>t<>  wi'tk  its  end  orv  tKc  c5rour\d 
%»Ad_climb  by  day  ^n<d  cb'rnb  by  ni^ Kt 
lEs^-cK  slippery  $eve;\/blcJ  round.  *' 

'^Tve  Toa-d.    I'i  too  lon^,cvnd  myj^eet  are  too  5I0W 
^  !l,  n\u|)t    seek  S^^'"''^^  otkcr  way  to  do  .'* 

d  Wo  man  I©  lcl^^on\  an  1 0)d-%^n>  an !  c^aotKKe. 
^^'Ourc  bouiAd  to  Kavc  your  own  way  1  jee 
§)0  ^fy^^  dont  bke  it, you  aeednt  bianAe  n^ve  . 


^M^hcn  Ke  put  tke  "^^Tsnye  h\  ev  basKel: 
MRAnd   rope>  to  t:l\e   Kevndles  l.\e   /"led  , 
%nc(  ono  he  mexde /§i5t  to  tKc  old.  cKiivcK  towei' 
"vci  o/AC   to  a.  tT'ee  bc5icle  . 

j        <g%noL  tKcrv  w/i'tK  ^  pole  Kc  pu^Kcd.  /^er 



l^e  3WLUAQ'  Ker  &((  o/ey  arvd.  Kc  sWunccKei'  ni'grnt 
.s^noL  me  7r\e7A  ia  tKe  tow;\  came  OLtt:  to  Keip 
'^'^4^tK  e<'^o   Ke2^ve  ©  .'  and  a  ffeave  £\wj\y  .' 
%^Kile  tKc  I  line  doers  aei-tKercd  zsrourxd  to  yelp 
c^nd  hKeiP>-an-yble-'lbu>K^|jM'>  cn'cd  ^y-evnci-^y 
%^l(  Kev,ve  Kcr  SwuncT  up  ^5ykr  ev^  tKe  _sky  "' 



-  -i—^^V^jGi?^.-"-^;.- 


_^ti:^___^^^^la'^'^man.  and  basket  and  broorn  were  ^en( ;   4'   ^ '. 

Ken   e>.  /armcrs  wi/e 
'^.hy^y^if-s-';"  C'ut   tKe  ropej-and  awa^  ^Ke  wervt 



'Jj  f  Wi'nety  times  S^S  KiVK  as  tKe  rrvoorv. 

^yiO'la%#oman!@ld'^^manIOJdWoman!^uo//\I,    /  p 


I  d  %  ^man  I  ©JoH^man:  quo 
.^^■tAd    Til   be  back  a^a-in  —  by  s^wik  by 

O  \vK;iKer,©)vvKi't|\er,©wKitKcr  30  K^^'k  ?"     I J   'MXi, 
"  To  brusK  ti\c  cobwebs  out  o/'  Inejky,        »>    '/  '    '  f^ 



j.F.JIiH&LING-  Sii 

**  1  'll  wait  fob  you.    come  on  ! 


By  Tudor  Jenks. 

Early  one  morning  during  my  third  visit  to 
Patagonia,  as  I  was  strolling  upon  the  banks  of 
the  River  Chico,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  a 
choice  sjjecimen  of  the  Rutabaga  Trcmcndosa, 
I  saw  what,  at  the  time,  I  supposed  to  be  a 
large  and  isolated  cliif.  It  looked  blue,  and 
consequently  I  supposed  it  to  be  at  some  dis- 
tance. Resuming  my  search  for  the  beautiful 
saffron  blossom  which  I  have  already  named, 
my  attention  was  for  some  moments  abstracted. 
After  pulling  the  plant  up  by  the  roots,  how- 
ever, I  happened  to  cast  my  eyes  again  toward 

the  supposed  cliff,  and  you  can  conceive  my  ex- 
treme mortification  and  regret  when  I  saw  that 
it  was  not  a  cliff  at  all,  but  a  giant,  and,  so  far 
as  I  could  see,  one  of  the  most  virulent  species. 
He  was  advancing  at  a  run,  and  although  not 
exerting  himself  overmuch  seemed  to  be  going 
at  a  rate  of  some  five  kilometers  a  minute.  Much 
annoyed  at  the  interruption  to  my  researches,  I 
paused  only  long  enough  to  deposit  the  Ruta- 
baga securely  in  my  botany  box  and  then  broke 
into  an  accelerated  trot.  Do  me  the  justice  to 
acquit  me  of  any  intention  of  entering  into  a 




contest  of  speed  with  the  pursuing  monster.  I 
am  not  so  conceited  as  to  imagine  I  can  cover  five 
or  even  three  kilometers  a  minute.  No  ;  I  relied, 
rather,  on  the  well-established  scientific  proba- 
bility that  the  giant  was  stujiid.  I  expected, 
therefore,  that  my  head  would  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  save  my  heels. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  saw  the  need  of  tak- 
ing immediate  steps  to  secure  my  specimens 
from  destruction  and  myself  from  being  eaten. 
He  was  certainly  gaining  upon  me.  As  he 
foolishly  ran  with  his  mouth  open,  I  noticed 
that  his  canine  teeth  were  very  well  developed 
—  not  a  proof,  but  strong  evidence,  that  he  was 
a  cannibal.  I  redoubled  my  s])eed,  keeping  an 
eager  eye  ujjon  the  topograpliy  in  the  hope 
that  I  might  find  some  cave  or  crevice  into 
which  1  could  creep  and  thus  obtain  time 
enough  to  elaborate  a  plan  of  escape.  I  had 
not  run  more  than  si.\  or  eight  kilometers,  I 
think  (for  distances  are  small  in  that  jiart  of 
Patagonia — or  were,  when  I  was  there),  when 
1  saw  a  most  convenient  cretaceous  cave. 

To  ensconce  myself  within  its  mineral  recesses 
w-as  the  work  of  but  a  moment,  and  it  was  fort- 
unate for  me  that  it  took  no  longer.  Indeed, 
as  I  roUeii  myself  deftly  beneath  a  shelving 
rock,  the  giant  was  so  near  tliat  he  pulled  off 
one  of  my  boots. 

He  sat  down  at  the  entrance  and  breathed 
with  astonishing  force  and  rapidity. 

"  Now,  if  he  is  as  stupid  as  one  of  his  race 
normally  should  be,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  he  will 
stay  there  for  .several  hours,  and  I  shall  a 
great  part  of  this  beautiful  day."  The  thought 
made  me  restless,  and  1  looked  about  to  see 
whether  my  surroundings  would  hint  a  solution 
of  the  situation. 

1  was  rewardeil  by  discovering  an  outlet  far 
above  me.  I  could  see  through  a  cleft  in  the 
rocks  portions  of  a  cirro-cumulus  cloud.  Fixing 
my  hat  more  firnil}-  upon  m\'  head,  I  began  the 
ascent.  It  did  not  take  long.  Indeed,  my 
progress  was,  if  anything,  rather  accelerated  by 
the  efforts  of  the  attentive  giant,  who  had  secured 
a  long  and  flexible  switch, —  a  young  India- 
rubber  tree,  I  think,  though  I  did  not  notice  its 
foliage  closely, —  and  was  poking  it  with  con- 
siderable violence  into  the  cave.  In  fact,  he 
lifted  me  some  decameters  at  e\'erv  thrust. 

It  may  easily  be  understood,  therefore,  that  I 
was  not  long  upon  the  way.  When  I  emerged, 
I  was  much  pleased  with  the  situation.  Speak- 
ing as  a  military  expert,  it  was  perfect.  Stand- 
ing upon  a  commodious  ledge,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  made  for  the  purpose,  my  head 
and  shoulders  jirojected  from  an  opening  in  the 
clifl',  which  was  just  conveniently  out  of  the  giant's 
reach.  As  my  head  rose  over  the  edge  of  the 
opening,  the  giant  spoke  : 

"  Aha,  you  're  there,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  won't  deny  it,"  I  answered. 

"  You  think  you  're  safe,  don't  you  ?  "  he  went 
on  tauntingly. 

"  I  know  I  'm  safe,"  I  answered,  with  an  easy 
confidence  which  was  calculated  to  ])lease. 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  to-night  I  am  going  to 
eat  you  for  supper !  " 

"  \V'hat,  then,"  I  asked,  with  some  curiosity, 
"  are  you  going  to  do  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  that  troubles  you,"  said  he,  "  all  you 
have  to  do  is  to  come  out  at  dinner-time  and  I 
will  eat  you  then." 

Evidently  the  giant  was  not  a  witling.  His 
answers  were  apt.  After  a  moment's  reflection 
I  concluded  it  was  worth  the  effort  to  make  an 
appeal  to  his  better  nature  —  his  over-soul. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  it  is  wrong  to  eat  your 
fellow-beings  ?  "  I  a.sked,  with  a  happy  mingling 
of  austere  reproach  and  sym])athetic  pain. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  come  out  soon  ?  "  asked 
the  giant,  seating  himself  upon  an  adjacent  cliff, 
after  tearing  off  such  of  the  taller  and  stiffer 
trees  as  were  in  his  way. 

"It  depends  somewhat  upon  whether  you 
remain  where  you  are,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  stay,"  said  the  giant,  pleasandy. 
"  Game  is  rare,  and  I  have  n't  eaten  a  white 
man  for  two  weeks." 

This  remark  brought  me  back  to  my  appeal 
to  his  higher  being.  "  Then  I  shall  remain  here, 
too,  for  the  present,"  I  answered,  "  though  I 
should  like  to  get  away  before  sunset.  It  's 
likely  to  be  humid  here  after  the  sun  sets. 
But.  to  return  to  my  question,  have  you  never 
thought  that  it  was  immoral  and  selfish  to 
eat  your  fellow-creatures  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  said  the  giant,  with  a  hearty 
frankness  that  was  truly  refreshing.  "  That  is 
why,"  he  went  on,  "  I  asked  you  whether  you 



were  coming  out  soon.  If  not,  I  would  be  glad 
to  while  the  time  away  by  e.xplaining  to  you 
exactly  how  1  feel  about  these  matters.  Of 
course  I  could  smoke  you  out "  (here  he 
showed  me  an  enormous  boulder  of  flint  and  a 
long  steel  rod,  the  latter  evidently  a  propeller- 
shaft  from  some  wrecked  ocean-steamer), '•  but 
I  make  it  a  rule  seldom  to  eat  a  fellow-mortal 
until  he  is  fully  convinced  that,  all  things  con- 
sidered, I  am  justified  in  so  doing." 

The  allusion  to  the  smoking-out  process  con- 
vinced me  that  this  was  no  hulking  ignoramus 
of  a  giant,  and  for  a  moment  I  began  to  fear 
that  my  Rutabaga  Treinendosa  was  lost  to  the 
world  forever.  But  the  latter  part  of  his  speech 
re-assured  me. 

"If  you  can  convince  me  that  I  ought  to  be 
eaten,"  I  said,  willing  to  be  reasonable,  "  I  shall 

found  employment  upon  a  farm.  I  stayed  there 
three  days.  Then  I  was  told  that  it  cost  more 
to  keep  me  than  I  was  worth ;  which  was  true. 
So  I  left.  Then  I  went  to  work  on  a  railroad. 
Here  I  did  as  much  as  twenty  men.  The  result 
was  a  strike,  and  I  was  discharged." 

"  Is  there  much  more  autobiography  ?  "  I 
asked  as  politely  as  I  could,  for  I  was  not  at  all 
interested  in  this  unscientific  memoir. 

"  Very  little,"  he  answered.  ■■  I  can  sum  it 
up  in  a  few  words.  Wherever  I  tried  to  get 
work,  I  was  discharged,  because  my  board  was 
too  expensive.  If  I  tried  to  do  more  work  to 
make  up  for  it,  the  other  men  were  dissatisfied, 
because  it  took  the  bread  out  of  their  mouths. 
Now,  I  put  it  to  you,  what  was  I  to  do  ?  " 

'■  Evidently,  you  were  forced  out  of  civiliza- 
tion," I  answered,  "  and  compelled  to  rely  upon 

I     SAW     THE     NEED    OF    TAKING    IMMEDIATE     STEPS    TO     SAVE    MV    SPECIMENS. 

certainly  ofter  no  objection.  But  I  confess  I 
have  little  fear  that  you  will  succeed." 

'■  I  first  discovered  that  I  was  a  giant,"  he 
said,  absently  chewing  the  stem  of  the  India- 
rubber  tree,  "  at  a  very  early  age.  I  could  not 
get  enough  to  eat.  I  then  lived  in  New  York 
City,  for  I  am  an  American,  like  yourself" 

We  bowed  ^\^th  mutual  pleasure. 

"  I  tried  various  sorts  of  work,  but  found  I 
could  not  earn  enough  at  any  of  them  to  pay 
my  board-bills.  I  even  exhibited  myself  in  a 
museum,  but  found  there  the  same  trouble. 

"  I  consulted  my  grandfather,  who  was  a  man 
of  matured  judgment  and  excellent  sense.  His 
advice  was  to  leave  the  city  and  try  for  work  in 
the  country.    I  did  so,  and  after  some  little  trouble 

nature  for  your  sustenance.  That  is,"  I  went 
on,  to  forestall  another  question,  "  you  had  to 
become  a  hunter,  trapper,  or  fisherman, —  for  of,  in  your  case,  agriculture  was  out  of  the 
question,  as  you  could  n't  easily  get  down 
to  the  ground,  and  would  crush  with  your  feet 
more  crops  than  you  could  raise  with  your 

His  eyes  sparkled  with  joy  at  being  so  thor- 
oughly understood.  "  E.xactly,"  he  said.  "But 
the  same  trouble  followed  me  there.  \Mierever 
I  setded,  the  inhabitants  complained  that  what 
I  ate  would  support  hundreds  of  other  people." 

"  Very  true,"  I  answered  ;  "  but,  excuse  me, 
could  you  hand  me  a  small  rock  to  sit  upon  ?  — 
it  is  tiresome  to  stand  here." 




"  Come  out,"  lie  said.  "You  have  my  word 
of  honor,  as  a  compatriot  of  George " 

"  Say  no  more  !  "  I  broke  in  ha.stily. 

I  came  out,  and  was  soon,  by  his  kind  aid, 
perched  upon  the  branch  of  a  tree  conveniently 

"  This  argument,"  he  said,  sighing,  "  met  me 
at  every  turn ;  and  after  much  cogitation  I  could 
see  no  solution  of  the  difficulty.  No  matter 
how  far  from  the  '  busy  haunts  of  men '  I  pro- 
ceeded, it  was  only  to  find  that  food  grew  scarcer 
as  men  were  less  numerous.  At  last  I  reached 
Patagonia,  and  after  a  few  years  I  have  eaten  it 
almost  bare.  Now,  to  what  conclusion  am  I 
driven  ? " 

I  thought  it  over.     .\t  last  I  said : 

"  I  see  the  extremities  to  which  you  are  re- 
duced. But  u])on  what  princi])lc  do  you  ])ro- 
ceed  to  the  next  step  —  cannibalism  ?  " 

"  The  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number," 
said  he.  "  Whenever  I  eat  an  animal,  I  dimin- 
ish the  stock  of  food  which  supports  mankind, 
but  whenever  I  eat  a  man,  I  diminish  the  num- 
ber to  be  supported.  .\s  all  the  wise  men  agree 
that  it  is  the  subsistence  which  is  short,  my 
course  of  action  tends  ultimately  to  the  greater 
ha]i|)iness  of  the  race." 

This  seemed  very  reasonable  and  for  a  mo- 
ment I  was  staggered.     Then  a  hapj))'  thought 

"'AHA,    VOL"   're    there,     ARE    VOU  ?  '  " 



•  6s 

came  to  me,  and  I  sug- 
gested that  it'  he  should 
allow  himself  to  die  ol 
start-atioa  the  demaod 
for  subsistence  would  be 
:<ill  moie  leduced. 

:    shook   his   head 
•*  1  used  to  h.  re 
so  mysel£     But  the 


to  most  accurate  <(.'.■> 
noi.  has  c-on\-ince«;l  :«c 
j»;;.  "nd  a  doubt  that  I 
can  catch  •-■  M^ch 

men,  in  a  ;. ..  -,  -liorc 

:han  make  up  for  what 
would  be  saved  if  I 
should  allow  my  own 
organism  to  cease  its 
active  exenioit>  in  the 
(.M-^-  of  humanity." 

I  thought  ren-  cans 
fitUr  over  these  argu- 
ments and  was  unable 
•jiw  in  thetn. 
in  of  ^<ieoce." 
I  said,  after  a  pause, "  I 
couM  wish  that  dtis  in- 
terview might  be  iw- 
poned    to   the  world.** 

-  Give  yourself  no 
uncastnesss.  It  >haU  be 
doQc."  said  the  giant. 

-  .Vnd  I  should  also  be 
glad  to  have  the  Rmta- 

(•tr ;  !     T'  ■■  - 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  the  gunt 
'IThrt*  was  no  exctise  for  further  ticii* 

\  •.,.  '. '.  '.htf  ^iant. —  In  i 
'   .:  •-  -       :•..  .rsation  verhitif 
tessof  htmsHt,  before  su[ 
p«a{»<r  again,  but  the  Ui 

■'.lent  tastes,  and  i^. 
x^r:'i  htm  verv  rr. 



I  said,  and  kkked  off  the  other 

kmd  mvitatuo.  1  should  lind  it  graoiying  to  have  the  trustees  at  my  own  table.  \ 


Bv  Walter  Camp. 


KHOI'ES.  WO'iiiRihF.  lltH"ELFlNGER. 

MlCU  no.  CORI'IN. 


VALE     FOOT-BALL    TEAM    OK     1888, 



"What  makes  a  good  foot-ball  player?"  is  a 
question  asked  over  and  over  again.  Many  are 
the  answers  given,  but  no  answer  is  correct  that 
does  not  contain  the  word  "  pluck."  The  same 
elements  that  go  to  make  up  excellence  in  anv 
of  the  other  field  sports  are  requisite  in  foot-ball : 
but  while  in  certain  of  the  others  that  peculiar 
type  of  courage  called  pluck  is  only  required  in 
a  moderate  degree,  in  foot-ball  it  is  absolutely 
indispensable.  Many  a  man  has  said:  "Oh!  I 
am  too  small  to  play  foot-ball ;  I  could  n't  get 
on  the  team."     Such  a  man  makes  a  mistake. 

Look  at  the  records  of  our  j)layers  and  see  how 
full  they  are  of  the  names  of  small  men.  With- 
ington.  Gushing,  Harding,  Hodge,  Beecher,  and 
twenty  others,  have  played  weighing  under  a 
hundred  and  fort)'  I  Nor  has  it  been  that  their 
deeds  have  been  remembered  because  performed 
by  such  small  men.  These  men  made  points  as 
well  as  reputations.  There  is  a  place  on  the  foot- 
ball field  for  a  man,  no  matter  what  he  weighs ; 
and  that  brings  to  mind  a  remarkable  pair  of  boys 
and  what  they  did  for  a  Yale  team  at  one  time. 
One  was  the  .son  of  a   United   States   Senator 



from  Massachusetts,  and  the  other  a  younger 
brother  of  a  well-known  Brooklyn  lawyer.  They 
were  classmates  at  Yale,  and  had  done  more  or 
less  foot-ball  work  during  the  course.  These 
two  men  ^veighed  about  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  pounds  apiece,  or  together  a  little  over  the 
weight  of  the  'varsity  snap-back.  In  that  year 
the  'varsity  team  was  suffering  from  a  combina- 
tion of  two  disorders — over-confidence  and  lack 
of  strong  practice.  None  knew  this  better  than 
these  two  little  chaps,  for  they  understood  the 
game  thoroughly.  One  day,  then,  they  appeared 
at  the  field  in  their  foot-ball  toggery,  and  without 
assistance  from  the  'varsity  captain  set  at  once 
to  work  upon  organizing  the  "  scrub  side,"  as  the 
outside  or  irregular  players  are  called.  One  of 
them  played  center  and  the  other  quarter,  and 
it  was  not  many  days  before  the  scrub  side  be- 
gan to  have  a  game  and  a  way  of  its  own.  The 
overfed,  underworked  university  players  began 
to  find  that  they  could  n't  have  things  all  their 
own  way.  Such  tricks  \vere  played  upon  them 
that  they  were  forced  to  wake  from  their  apathy. 
These  two  boys  began  to  show  them  the  way  to 
make  use  of  brains  against  weight  and  strength, 
and  the  scrub  side,  that  a  week  or  two  before  had 
been  unable  to  hold  the  'varsity  even  enough 
to  make  the  contest  interesting,  actually  had  the 
audacity  to  score  against  them  once  or  twice 
every  afternoon.  How  those  two  ever  got  such 
work  out  of  the  rabble  they  had  to  handle,  no 
one  knows  to  this  da)' ;  but  it  was  the  making  of 
the  'varsity  team,  for  it  speedily  developed 
under  this  experience  into  one  of  Yale's  strong- 
est teams,  and  I  have  often  heard  one  of  that 
team  remark  since  that  he  'd  rather  play  against 
any  team  in  the  Association  than  against  the 
"scrubs"  lead  by  "  Pop  "  Jenks  and  "Timmy  " 

This  brings  us  to  another  quality  :  the  brains 
of  a  team.  That  team  is  the  best  which  has  the 
most  brains.  Foot-ball  is,  even  now,  an  unde- 
veloped sport.  There  is  room  for  an  almost 
infinite  number  of  as  yet  unthought-of  plays. 
Every  season  brings  forward  man\-  new  ones. 
If  a  player  wishes  to  devote  a  little  of  his  spare 
time  to  a  fascinating  amusement,  let  him  take 
pencil  and  paper  and  plan  out  combinations  in 
the  evening,  and  try  them  the  next  day.  He 
will  soon  find  that  he  is  bringing  out  not  only 

new  but  successful  plays.  Some  think  that  the 
captain  of  the  'varsity  team  is  the  only  one  who 
has  an  opportunity  to  try  this  ;  but  if  two  or  three 
on  the  scrub  side  will  make  the  attempt  they  will 
find  that  a  'varsity  team  is  no  more  proof  against 
a  new  scheme  than  the  veriest  scrub  team  in  ex- 
istence. In  fact,  oftentimes  the  'varsity  players 
are  so  sublime  in  their  own  consciousness  of 
superiority  that  they  are  the  simplest  men  on 
the  field  to  lead  into  traps  and  defeat  by  a  little 
exercise  of  ingenuity.  If  a  boy  at  school  is  n't 
on  the  first  team,  he  can  get  together  a  few  men 
of  the  second  team  and  have  the  satisfaction  of 
actually  showing  his  betters  how  to  play. 

"  Play  not  for  gain  but  sport,"  is  thoroughly 
sound ;  but  it  means  play  honestly  and  hard,  not 
listlessly  and  carelessly,  and  make  it  your  sport 
to  win.  Then  if  you  lose,  put  a  good  face  on 
it ;  but  go  home  and  think  out  a  way  to  win  next 
time.  Brains  w'ill  beat  brute  strength  every  time 
if  you  give  them  fair  play. 

Kndurance  is  another  element  of  success. 
Plenty  of  dash  when  it  is  necessary,  but  behind 
it  there  must  be  the  steady,  even,  staying  quali- 
ties. For  these,  good  training  is  chiefly  responsi- 
ble ;  because,  although  natural  endurance  does 
exist  in  some  men,  it  is  not  common,  while  the 
entlurance  of  well-trained  men  is  a  thing  that 
can  be  relied  upon  with  confidence. 

.\  direct  case  in  point  was  a  \ictorj' of  Prince- 
ton over  Yale,  in  1878.  Upon  the  Yale  team 
were  some  three  or  four  men,  upper  class  men, 
W'ho  thought  that  they  had  done  enough  training 
in  former  years,  and  they  therefore  made  but  a 
pretense  of  following  out  the  rules  of  strict 
training.  The  example  of  these  men  aft'ected 
several  of  the  other  players  to  such  an  extent 
that  there  was  great  laxity.  Up  to  the  time  of 
the  final  contest,  this  team  had  performed  well, 
and  it  was  generally  believed  that  they  would 
have  no  great  difficulty  in  defeating  Princeton. 

In  the  first  half  of  the  game  they  pressed  the 
Orange  men  hard,  and  several  times  all  but 
scored.  In  the  dressing-room  at  intermission 
there  was  a  general  impression  that,  with  the  «ind, 
which  would  be  in  Yale's  favor  the  second  half, 
they  must  surely  win.  The  second  half  began, 
and  it  was  not  many  minutes  before  the  Yale 
men  found  themselves  steadily  losing  ground. 
There  was  in  the  Princeton  runners  a  resistless 

1 68 



force  that  kept  Yale  retreating  nearer  and  nearer  ton  had  come  to  New  Haven  after  a  long 
to  her  own  goal.  At  last,  by  a  brilliant  play,  wrangle  about  the  place  of  playing,  and  had 
Princeton  succeeded  in  making  a  touch-down    brought  a  team  supposed  by  experts  through- 


DA\lb.  TKAKhORD. 


WELD —  manal,i;r 


Cf.MNOCK.  L1-:L. 


HARVARD    FOOT-BALL    TEAM     OF     l8 

from  which  a  goal  was  kicked.  During  the  re- 
mainder of  the  game,  Princeton,  although  mak- 
ing no  further  score,  held  Yale  fast  down  inside 
the  twenty-five-yard  line,  and  the  Blue  went 
back  to  New  Haven  with  a  very  salutary  lesson 
on  the  evil  of  neglecting  the  laws  of  training. 

These  are  laws  which  no  foot-ball  player  can 
afford  to  ignore. 

L.\m.a.r's  Rux. 

One  of  the  most  magnificent  dashes  ever 
made  on  an  American  foot-ball  field  was  the 
run  made  by  Lamar,  of  Princeton,  in  the  game 
with  Yale,  which  was  played  upon  the  Yale 
field,  November  21,  1885.  The  game  had 
been  an  unusual  one  in  many  respects.    Prince- 

out  the  country  to  be  sure  winners.  The  Yale 
team  was  a  green  one,  and  none  of  her  parti- 
sans hoped  for  more  than  a  respectable  show- 
ing against  the  Princeton  veterans.  But  Peters, 
the  Yale  captain,  had  done  wonders  with  his 
recruits,  as  the  game  soon  showed.  His  team 
opened  with  a  rush  and  actually  forced  the 
fight  for  the  entire  first  half  They  scored  a 
goal  from  the  field  upon  the  astonished  Prince- 
tonians,  and,  in  spite  of  the  vahant  efforts  put 
forth  against  them,  seemed  certain  of  victory. 
The  feeling  of  the  Princeton  team  and  her  sym- 
pathizers can  easily  be  imagined.  The  sun  was 
low  in  the  horizon,  nearly  forty  minutes  of  the 
second  half  were  gone,  and  no  one  dared  to 
hope  such  failing  fortunes  could  be  retrieved  in 
the  few  remaining  minutes.     The  ball  was  in 



Yale's  hands,  half-way  down  the  field  and  on 
the  northern  edge.  For  a  moment  Captain 
Peters  hesitated,  and  consulted  with  another  of 
his  players  as  to  whether  he  should  continue  the 
running  game  and  thus  make  scoring  against 
him  impossible  and  victory  certain,  or  send  the 
ball  by  a  kick  down  in  front  of  his  enemy's  goal 
and  trust  to  a  fumble  to  increase  his  score.  Per- 
haps not  a  dozen  men  knew  what  was  in  his 
mind.  A  kick  was  surely  the  more  generous 
play  in  the  eyes  of  the  crowd.  He  settled  the 
ball  under  his  foot,  gave  the  signal,  and  shot  it 
back.  The  quarter  sent  it  to  Watkinson,  who 
drove  it  with  a  low,  swinging  punt  across  the 

attempted  to  catch  it,  but  it  shot  off  his  breast  to- 
ward the  southern  touch-line.  Lamar,  who  had 
been  slightly  behind  this  man,  was  just  starting 
up  to  his  assistance  from  that  particular  spot.  As 
the  ball  shd  off  with  its  force  hardly  diminished 
he  made  a  most  difficult  short-bound  catch  of 
it  on  the  run,  and  sped  away  along  the  south- 
ern boundary.  The  Yale  forwards  had  all  gone 
past  the  ball,  in  their  expectation  of  getting 
it,  as  they  saw  the  missed  catch.  Lamar, 
therefore,  went  straight  along  toward  the  half- 
back and  back.  Watkinson,  the  kicker,  had 
hardly  stirred  from  his  tracks,  as  the  entire  play 
had  occupied  but  a  few  seconds,  and   he   was 

HODCF,    R 




twenty-five-yard  line  and  toward  the  farther  therefore  too  near  the  northern  side  of  the  field 
goal  post.  It  was  a  perfect  kick  for  Yale's  to  have  even  a  chance  to  cut  off  the  runner, 
purposes,  difficult  to  catch  and  about  to  land  Lamar,  with  the  true  instinct  of  the  born  run- 
close  to  the  enemy's  posts.  A  Princeton  man  ner,  saw  in  a  moment  his  opportunity,  and  ran 
Vol.  XVII.— 20. 




Straight  along  the  southern  edge  as  if  he  in- 
tended to  get  by  there.  Bull  and  his  comrade 
(who  then  were  inexperienced  tacklers)  were  the 
two  men  in  his  pathway,  and  they  both  bunched 


over  by  the  line  as  the  Princeton  runner  came 
flying  down  upon  them.  Just  as  he  was  almost 
upon  them,  Lamar  made  a  swerve  to  the  right, 
and  was  by  them  like  lightning  before  either 
could  recover.  By  this  time  two  or  three  of  the 
Yale  forwards,  Peters  among  them,  had  turned 
and  were  desperately  speeding  up  the  field  after 
Lamar,  who  was  but  a  few  yards  in  advance, 
having  given  up  several  yards  of  his  advantage 
to  the  well-executed  maneuver  by  which  he 
had  cleared  his  field  of  the  half-back  and  back. 
Then  began  the  race  for  victory.  Lamar  had 
nearly  forty  yards  to  go,  and,  while  he  was  run- 
ning well,  had  had  a  sharp  "  breather  "  already, 
not  only  in  his  run  thus  far,  but  in  his  superb 
dodging  of  the  backs.  Peters,  a  strong,  untiring, 
thoroughly  trained  runner,  was  but  a  few  yards 
behind  him,  and  in  addition  to  this  he  was  the 
captain  of  a  team  which  but  a  moment  before 
had  been  sure  of  victory.  How  he  ran !  But 
Lamar — did  he  not  too  know  full  well  what  the 
beat  of  those  footsteps  behind  him  meant  ?  The 
white  five-yard  lines  fairly  flew  under  his  feet; 

past  the  broad  twenty-five-yard  hne  he  goes, 
still  with  three  or  four  yards  to  spare.  Now  he 
throws  his  head  back  with  that  familiar  motion 
of  the  sprinter  who  is  almost  to  the  tape,  and 
who  will  run  his  heart 
out  in  the  last  few 
strides,  and,  almost  be- 
fore one  can  breathe, 
he  is  over  the  white 
goal-line  and  panting 
on  the  ground,  with 
the  ball  under  him, 
a  touch-down  made, 
from  which  a  goal  was 
kicked,  and  the  day 
saved  for  Princeton. 

Bull's    Kick. 

The  season  of  1888 
had  opened  with  a  veri- 
table foot-ball  boom. 
The  previous  season 
had  ended  with  a  close 
contest  between  Har- 
vard and  Yale,  while 
Princeton,  although  oc- 
cupying third  place,  had  had  by  no  means  a 
weak  team.  Reports  of  the  preliminary  work  of 
the  three  great  teams,  while  conflicting,  pointed 
m  a  general  way  to  an  increased  strength  at  each 
uni\ersity.  The  Boston  papers  were  lauding  the 
work  of  the  Harvard  team,  and  the  New  York 
papers  returning  the  compliment  with  tales  of 
large  scores  by  the  Princeton  men.  Advices  from 
New  Haven  showed  that  Yale  had  a  far  greater 
wealth  of  material  from  which  to  draw  players 
than  either  of  the  others,  so  that  although  the 
actual  strength  of  the  team  could  not  be  learned, 
it  was  certain  that  the  lugubrious  reports  from 
the  City  of  Elms  had  little  foundation.  In 
this  state  of  affairs,  the  first  game,  which  was 
scheduled  to  be  between  the  Crimson  and  the 
Orange  and  Black,  was  eagerly  awaited.  The 
game  was  played  at  Princeton,  and  an  enor- 
mous crowd  assembled  to  wimess  the  match. 
Both  sides  were  confident  of  victory,  and 
Princeton  was  also  determined  to  avenge  the 
defeat  of  the  former  season.  The  day  was  per- 
fect, and  the  game  a  thoroughly  scientific  one. 



Although  Harvard  battled  manfully  up  to  the 
very  last  moment,  she  could  not  overcome  the 
lead  which  Princeton  had  obtained  early  in  the 
game,  and  was  at  last  forced  to  return  to  Cam- 
bridge defeated.  The  hopes  of  Princeton  soared 
up  that  afternoon  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  those 
who  were  well  posted  on  the  relative  merits  of 
foot-ball  players  agreed  with  them  that  their 
prospects  were  indeed  of  the  brightest.  Had  it 
not  been  for  news  which  came  over  the  wires 
that  evening  from  New  Haven,  it  would  have 
been  concluded  that  Princeton  would  find  an 
easy  prey  in  Yale.  But  that  news  was  some- 
thing startling.  It  seems  that  the  Yale-Wes- 
leyan  championship  game  had  been  played  that 
same  day.  Harvard  and  Princeton  had  each 
already  met  Wesleyan, 
but  neither  had  scored 
over  fifty  points  against 
them.  The  astonish- 
ment of  all  foot-ball 
men  was  great,  then, 
when  the  news  came  ^  ^ 
that  Yale  had  made  {^^l^X; 
the  almost  unprece-  (fxf&KW 
dented  score  of  105  l=-f^\  h'' 
againstthe  Middletown 
men.  This,  then,  was 
the  state  of  affairs  pre- 
vious to  the  Yale- 
Princeton  match.  Har- 
vard was  now  out  of 
the  question,  owing  to 
her  defeat  by  Prince- 
ton, and  all  interest 
centered  in  this  final 
contest.  The  day,  while 
not  very  promising  in 
its  morning  aspect, 
turned  out  propitious  toward  noon,  and  fully  fif- 
teen thousand  people  crowded  the  Polo  Grounds 
before  the  players  stepped  out  on  the  field.  A 
perfect  roar  of  applause  greeted  the  entrance 
of  the  rival  teams,  and  as  they  lined  out  facing 
one  another  not  even  the  most  indifferent  could 
help  feeling  the  thrill  of  suppressed  excitement 
that  trembled  through  the  vast  throng.  The 
game  began,  and  for  twenty-five  minutes  first 
one  side  gained  a  slight  advantage,  then  the 
other,  but  neither  had  been  able  to  score.     The 

Yale  men  had  a  slight  advantage  in  position, 
having  forced  the  ball  into  Princeton's  territory. 
So  manfully  were  they  held  from  advancing 
closer  to  the  coveted  goal,  that  people  were  be- 
ginning to  think  that  the  game  might  result  in  a 
draw,  neither  side  scoring.  At  this  point  Yale 
had  possession  of  the  ball.  That  slight  change 
in  position, —  that  massing  of  the  forwards  to- 
ward the  center  and  the  closing  up  of  the  back, 
—  that  surely  means  something  !  Yes,  Princeton 
sees  it  too,  and  eagerly  her  forwards  press  up  in 
the  line  with  their  eyes  all  centered  on  the  back, 
for  it  is  evident  he  is  to  try  a  drop-kick  for  goal. 
This  bright-faced,  boyish-looking  fellow,  with 
a  rather  jaunty  air,  is  Bull,  Yale's  famous  drop- 
kicker.     He  seems  calm  and  quiet  enough  as 


he  gives  a  look  of  direction  to  the  quarter  and 
with  a  smile  steps  up  to  the  spot  where  he 
wishes  the  ball  thrown.  There  is  a  moment  of 
expectancy,  and  then  the  whole  forward  Hne 
seems  torn  asunder,  and  through  the  gap  comes 
a  mass  of  Princeton  rushers  with  a  furious  dash, 
but  just  ahead  of  them  flies  the  ball,  from  the 
quarter,  straight  and  sure  into  Bull's  outstretched 
hands.  It  hardly  seems  to  touch  them,  so 
quickly  does  he  turn  the  ball  and  drop  it  before 
him,  as  with  a  swing  of  his  body  he  brings  him- 



self  into  kicking  attitude,  and  catching  tlie  ball 
with  his  toe,  as  it  rises  from  the  ground,  shoots  it 
like  a  bolt  just  over  the  heads  of  the  Princeton 
forwards,  and — down  he  goes  in  the  rush!  The 



ball,  however,  sails  smoothly  on,  high  in  the  air, 
just  missing  by  a  few  feet  the  wished-for  goal. 
A  sigh  of  relief  escapes  from  the  troubled 
breasts  of  Princeton  sympathizers  as  they  realize 
that,  for  a  time,  at  least,  the  danger  is  past. 
The  Orange  and  Black  bring  the  ball  out  for  a 
kick-out,  and  work  desperately  to  force  it  up 
the  field,  having  had  too  vivid  a  realization  of 
danger  to  desire  a  repetition.  Again,  however, 
they  are  driven  steadily  back  until  the  Yale 
captain  thinks  he  is  near  enough  to  give  Bull  a 
second  opportunity,  and  at  a  signal  the  forma- 
tion for  a  kick  is  again  made.  Bull,  a  little  less 
smiling,  a  trifle  less  jaunty  in  his  air,  again  takes 
his  position.  Again  Princeton  opens  up  the 
line  and  drives  her  forwards  down  upon  him, 
but  again  that  deadly  drop  sails  over  their 
heads;  this  time  a  foot  nearer  the  black  cross- 
bar.    Another  kick-out  bv   Princeton  follows, 

and  another  desperate  attempt  to  force  the 
blue  back  to  the  center  of  the  field,  but  with 
a  maddening  persistency,  and  with  a  steady 
plunging  not  to  be  checked,  the  gray  and  blue 
line  fights  its  way,  \ard  by  yard,  down  upon  the 
Princeton  territory.  Captain  Corbin  glances 
once  more  at  the  goal,  sees  that  his  line  is 
near  enough,  and  again  gives  the  signal.  Bull 
teps  up  for  the  third  time,  and  his  smile  has 
flown.  He  realizes  that  twice  have  his  ten  men 
<  arried  the  ball  for  him  up  to  the  very  door 
of  victory,  only  to  see  him  close  that  door  in 
their  faces.  His  lips  are  firmly  set  as  his  resolve 
shows  itself  in  every  line  of  his  well-knit  frame. 
He  settles  himself  firmly  on  his  feet  and  gives 
the  signal  for  the  ball  to  come.  For  the  third 
time  the  little  quarter  hurls  it  from  under  the 
vcr)-  feet  of  the  plunging  mass,  and  this  time  Bull 
>cnds  it  true  as  a  bullet  straight  over  the  cross- 

bar between  the  posts.  With  a  yell  of  dehght 
the  Yale  men  rush  madly  over  the  ropes  and  seize 
the  successful  kicker.  In  the  second  half  Bull 
has  but  one  opportunity;  but  he  takes  advantage 
of  that  one  to  score  another  goal,  and  when  the 
game  is  over  is  borne  off  in  triumph  by  the 
rejoicing  Yalensians,  the  hero  of  the  day. 





'W  The 




By  M.  Helen  Lovett. 

The  Emperor  sat  in  his  chair  of  state  ; 
Round  about  did  the  courtiers  wait. 
With  cues  behind 

And  smiles  before, 
They  bowed  to  the  Emperor 
Down  to  the  floor. 
The  Emperor's  visage  was  yellow  of  hue, 

And  half-shut  eyelids  his  eyes  peered 

A  letter  he  read. 



Then  he  nodded  his  head, 

And,  '■  Indeed  it 's  quite  true,"  he  frequently  said. 
For  the  letter  described  in  words  glowing  like  flame 
Great  Chinaland's  glory,  her  Emperor's  fame. 

It  came  from  Japan,  from  the  Emperor  there 
(I  don't  know  his  name,  but  perhaps  you  don't 

And  it  went  on  to  say, 
In  the  pleasantest  way: 
'■  Good  Brother  of  China,  best  greeting  to-day. 
I  beg  you  '11  accept,  as  a  verj-  small  token 
Of  my  regard,  which  can  never  be  spoken, 
This  coach  and  four. 

From  England,  you  see, 
The  Englishmen  sent  it 
A  present  to  me. 
The  kindly  barbarians  tendered  me  two  ; 
As  I  can't  use  both,  I  now  send  one  to  you." 

Well  pleased  was  the  Emperor. 

"  Bring  it  up  here. 
You  fellows,  stand  back  there !  — 

And  make  the 
way  clear." 
"  Pardon,  Your  Majesty, 
That  can  not  be  ; 

The  coach  will  not  go  through  the  doorway,  you 




There  came  a  dark  frown  on  the  Emperor's 
"  Then  I  'II  go  down,  for  I  must  see  it  now." 

So  down  the  stairs  the  Emperor  ran, 

And  the  courtiers  followed,  every  man ; 

As  fast  as  they  can  they  scuffle  and  run 

After  their  master  to  see  the  fun. 

After  him,  mind  you,  for  you  see. 

The  rule  of  the  best  society 

Had  been,  for  thousand  of  years  and  more: 
"  The  Emperor  always  goes  before." 

The  coach  and  four  at  the  palace  door 
Was  as  large  as  life,  or  a  size  or  two  more. 
With  coachman  and  footman  all  complete. 
And  cushions  of  silk  on  the  very  best  seat. 
And  round  about  in  procession  they  walked, 
And  e.^amined  it  all,  and  stared  and  talked. 
And  the  Emperor  rubbed  his  hands  with  pride  ■ 
"  I  '11  climb  up  in  front  there  and  take  a  ride." 
But  the  coachman  said,  "  Your  Majesty, 

The  seat  inside  is  for  you,  you  see ; 

The  one  in  front  's  where  the  driver  sits  —  " 

"  WHAT  ?     This  fellow  is  out  of  his  wits. 
Idiot  !     Don't  you  know  the  rule  ?  — 
Were  n't  manners   taught   when   you    went    to 

school  ? 
Remember  this,  if  you  know  no  more : 
'The  Emperor  always  goes  before.' 

"  That  highest  £:eat 
(Must  I  repeat?) 

Is  the  one  where  the  Emperor  ought  to  go. 
I  can't  ride  aft. 
And  you  must  be  daft, 



For  a  moment  to  have  fancied  so !  " 
And  up  on  end  each  pigtail  stood, 
To  think  that  the  Emperor  ever  could, 
Did,  should,  might  or  would 
Ride  behind.   "Now,  did  you  ever?" 
"  No,  really,  upon  my  word,  I  never." 

"But      how      shall      I      drive,    Your 

Majesty  ?  " 
"Through  the  windows,  or, —  I  don't 

care,"  said  he. 
"That  is  _y07/r  business,  I  should  say, 
But    hand    those   cushions    up    this 

way. " 
It  could  n't  be  helped,  so  off  they 

The  Emperor   rode   to   his   heart's 

But  long  did  the  Emperor  rue  that 

Of  course  the  horses  ran  away, 

And   the    Emperor,   as    you    may 

Came  to  the  ground  on  his  royal 

His  royal  brow  had  a  bump  for  a 

And  one    of  the   royal   legs    was 


All  he  could  do 

(What  more  could  you  ?) 

Was  to  hang  the  coachman    and 

footman  too. 
And  then  the  Emperor   changed 

the  rule. 
And  now  you  would  learn,  if  you 

went  to  school 
In    Chinaland     ('t    is    a    proverb 

■  We  call  \ijirst\\\\en  the  Emperor  's 


— ^ 

By  Ida  Warner  Van  der  Voort. 

The  shadows  of  night  he  drifted  over  the  valley  and  hill, 
And  earth  is  hushed  and  silent  under  the  starlight  still ; 
A  low-voiced  breeze  is  complaining  among  the  willows  and  reeds, 
Where  the  brook  creeps  stealtjiily  onward  away  through  the  flowery  meads ; 
The  goldenrod  's  drowsily  nodding,  heavy  with  dew  and  perfume, 
The  grasses  are  whispering  tenderly  their  secrets  in  the  gloom ; 
When  hark !  thro'  the  hush  and  the  starlight,  a  low  sweet  note  is  heard  — 
A  low  sweet  note,  like  the  call  of  a  dreaming,  half-wakened  bird ; 
On  the  air  it  lingers  a  moment,  then  trembling  passes  away, 
As  a  falling  summer  blossom  floats  down  from  the  parent  spray. 
But  again  and  again  it  rises,  in  tones  ever  stronger  and  stronger, 
Calling,  and  calling,  and  calling,  it  grows  ever  louder  and  longer ; 
And  see  !  from  behind  a  hill-top  the  ruddy-faced  moon  appears. 
As  if  she  paused  to  listen  to  the  strange  sweet  sounds  she  hears; 
While  dark  against  the  brilliant  disk  a  boyish  form  is  seen. 
An  elfish,  wild-eyed  lad  is  he,  with  hair  of  a  golden  sheen  ; 
A  bonny  boy,  most  fair  to  see,  and  tucked  beneath  his  chin 
He  holds,  and  plays  with  loving  touch,  a  quaint  old  violin. 
But  what  can  bring  him  here  to-night  ?     For  whom  does  he  wait  and  call  ? 
For  whom  are  they  meant,  those  pleading  strains  that  softly  rise  and  fall  ? 
There  's  a  sudden  rustle  of  little  feet  within  the  dusky  shade  — 
With  timid  approach,  and  swift  retreat,  a  rabbit  comes  over  the  glade ; 
Nearer,  still  nearer  he  comes,  like  stars  are  his  eager  eyes, 
They  glow  thro'  the  gloom  of  the  evening,  filled  with  a  shy  surprise ; 
And  soon  on  every  side  are  seen,  eager,  but  half  afraid. 
The  rabbits  young,  and  rabbits  old,  of  every  size  and  shade, 




'  CLOSE    TO    THE    FEET 



Drawn  by  the  notes  so  wild  and  weird,  they  gather  from  far  and  near; 

Advancing,  retreating,  on  they  come,  pausing  to  listen,  and  peer, 

And  prick  their  silken,  sensitive  ears,  and  turn  each  little  head. 

Starting  in  fright  if  a  withered  leaf  but  crackles  beneath  their  tread. 

Soon,  however,  their  fear  departs,  and  under  the  magic  spell. 

Close  to  the  feet  of  the  player  they  creep,  while  higher  the  wild  notes  swell, 

Until,  like  one  who  wakes  from  a  trance,  the  player  stays  his  hand, 

And  his  large  dark  eyes  look  dreamily  over  the  charmed  band. 

A  faint  smile  curves  his  rosy  lips,  he  flings  back  his  golden  hair. 

And,  slowly  rising,  forward  moves,  through  the  mellow  moon-lit  air. 

The  rabbits,  grasping  harebell  wands,  alert  and  upright  st.Tnd. 

And  playing  a  merry  elfin  march,  he  leads  them  through  the  land. 

Past  fields  where  the  yellow  corn-husks  whisper  in  drowsy  surprise; 

Past  vagrant  vines'  detaining  arms,  red  with  the  autumn  dyes; 






THE     LAND." 

Through  the  bracken,  and  over  a  brook,  and  on  till  they  reach 

a  dell 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  an  odorous  wood,  where  night  has  cast 
its  spell ; 
A  mossy  glade  where  the  mounting  moon  but  glances  through  clustering  trees, 
And  there,  on  a  stately  cabbage  throne,  the  leader  sits  at  ease, 
While  thronged  about  on  every  side,  his  furry  followers  sing. 
As  sweetly  from  their  chiming  bells  a  blithe  refrain  they  ring  : 

"  JVi:  come  from  the  T'allev,  7i<e  come  from  the  hill. 
At  thy  summorn  we  rally  to  answer  thy  rcill. 
]Ve  hail,  7C'e  hail  thee  with  joyous  delight, 
We  'II  dance  'neath  the  trees  in  the  mystic  tnoonlight. 
For  we  come  from  the  valley,  we  come  from  the  hill. 
At  thv  summons  we  rally  to  ansiuer  thy  will." 

With  a  madder,  merrier  peal  of  bells,  they  gayly  end  their  song, 
The  violin  takes  up  the  strain,  and  soon  the  little  throng 
Is  whirling  o'er  the  dewy  sward  to  a  waltz's  dizzy  measure. 
And  not  a  rabbit  of  them  all  but  joins  the  dance  with  pleasure. 
As  round  and  round  they  wildly  fly,  one  slips  upon  the  moss ; 
Her  partner  still  whirls  gayly  on,  unconscious  of  his  loss. 
Thus  many  couples  come  to  grief:  exhausted,  down  they  sink. 
Their  heads  spin  round  with  giddiness  the  while  they  wink  and  blink. 


At  last,  of  all  the  jolly  throng,  one  couple  's  left  alone, 

And  now  an  impish  spirit  seems  to  rule  the  music's  tone. 

Fast  and  furious  flies  the  bow,  the  antics  grow  more  mad  ; 

Such  flapping  ears  and  twinkling  feet, —  't  would  make  a  hermit  glad; 

Such  leaps,  and  bounds,  and  capers  queer,  their  comrades  grow  excited. 

And  ring  their  bells  applaudingly,  and  cheer  them  on,  delighted. 


"WE    COME     FROM    THE    VALLEY,     WE    COME     FROM    THE    HILL." 

At  length  the  willful  measures  cease,  the  weary  dancers  pause, 

And  answer  with  triumphant  smiles  the  well-deserved  applause. 

The  fiddler  now  advances,  the  lucky  pair  are  crowned. 

As  King  and  Queen  of  Rabbitland  they  '11  reign  the  whole  year  round. 

Then  some,  of  course,  are  envious,  and  mutter,  "Are  n't  they  proud!  " 

As  the  new-made  monarchs  proudly  turn  to  greet  the  cheering  crowd. 

But  when  a  stately  air  is  played,  all  march  up  two  by  two. 



Salute  the  royal  couple,  and  for  grace  and  favor  sue. 

A  cheerful  banquet  now  is  served,  composed  of  cabbage  salad ; 

(The  way  that  cabbage  disappeared  would  make  a  gardener  pallid!) 

The  kind  old  moon,  upon  the  wane,  looks  down  and  smiles  benign, 

In  low  and  mystic  monotone  murmur  the  oak  and  pine. 

But  see!  —  once  more  the  elfish  lad  shakes  back  his  golden  hair. 

Draws  bow  across  the  singing  strings.     His  summons  cleaves  the  air. 


'AND     NOT    A     RABBIT     OF     THEM     ALL    BIT    JOINS    THE     DANCE     WITH     PLEASURE. 

The  eager  rabbits  upward  spring  and  each  one  grasps  his  bell. 
And  now  begin  the  queerest  games  within  the  dim-lit  dell. 
One  little  bunny,  long  of  ear,  and  with  most  roguish  eyes, 
Sits  quite  erect,  while  over  him  to  leap  each  comrade  tries ; 





And  one  falls  unexpectedly  upon  his  precious  head, 

And  lies  a  moment  not  quite  sure  if  he  's  alive  or  dead. 

Another  turns  a  somersault  just  as  he  's  nearly  over, 

And  finds  pine-needles,  as  a  bed,  can  not  compare  with  clover. 






They  play  a  royal  game  of  "  tag,"  and  "  hide-and-seek  "  comes  after, 

While  all  the  dusky  woods  resound  with  peals  of  rabbit  laughter. 

Some  form  a  ring  and  dance  about  their  harebells  stacked  together, 

One  dares  to  tickle  the  monarch's  ear  with  downy  bits  of  feather. 

And  shakes  with  mirth  unbounded,  as  his  Majesty  flaps  and  twitches, — 

Xo  lover  of  fun  would  have  missed  the  sight  for  all  (lolconda's  riches! 

But  now  the  music  changes,  the  strain  grows  weirdly  wild, 

Then  sinks,  and  almost  dies  away,  in  cadence  soft  and  mild ; 

A  pause,  and  then  an  outburst  so  unrestrained  and  glad, 

Each  rabbit  takes  a  partner  and  dashes  off  like  mad. 

And  round  and  round,  and  to  and  fro,  they  gayly  fly,  until  — 

The  tired  old  moon  slips  out  of  sight,  and  all  is  dark  and  still. 

If  •tlEBABE^eR.e-Tfie  -ISafid^ 

By  Francis  Randall. 

F  the  little  toddling  babies 
\\'ere  the  makers  of  our  lays, 
You  'd  find  verses  very  difi'erent 
In  a  thousand  startling  ways. 
The  babes  would  be  exalted, 
And  the  rest  of  us  appear 
As  the  secondary  creatures 
Of  a  very  different  sphere. 
Just  imagine  that  the  baby 
Wrote  the  songs  we  here  have  shown 
And  gave  them  to  the  world  at  large 
From  his  little  baby  throne  : 

Be  kind  to  the  baby. 

For  when  thou  art  old 

Who  '11  nurse  thee  so  tender  as  he, — 

Who  '11  catch  the  first  accents  that  fall  from 

thy  tongue 
Or  laugh  at  thy  innocent  glee  ? 

Rock-a-bye,  Papa, 
On  the  tree-top, 
When  the  wind  blows 
The  cradle  will  rock ; 
When  the  bough  bends 
The  cradle  will  fall  — 
Down  will  come  Papa 
And  cradle  and  all. 


IF    THE    BAUES    WERE    THE    BAUDS. 

Bye,  Mamma  Bunting, 

Baby  's  gone  a-hunting. 

Gone  to  get  a  rabbit-skin 

To  wrap  the  Mamma  Bunting  in. 

Oh,  Baby,  dear  Baby,  come  home  with  me  now, 

The  clock  in  the  steeple  strikes  one  ; 

You  said  you  were  coming  right  in  from  the  yard, 

As  soon  as  your  mud-pie  was  done. 

The  fire  's  gone  out :  the  house  is  all  cold ; 

And  Mother  's  been  watching  since  tea, 

With  poor  Father  Jimmy  asleep  by  the  fire. 

And  no  one  to  help  her  but  me. 


By  Daisy  F.  Barry. 

ID  you  ever  keep  a 
calendar  ?  I  have 
kept  one  all  this 
year,  and  it  has 
given  me  so  much 
pleasure  that  I 
have  resolved  to 
keep  one  always 
as  long  as  I  live. 
I  will  tell  you 
how  I  came  to  keep  it.  For  three  or  four  years 
past,  my  sister  has  been  in  correspondence  with 
the  secretary  of  a  society  in  which  we  are  both 
very  much  interested ;  but  she  has  been  the 
w'orking  member,  for,  although  I  am  the  elder, 
I  am  never  quite  well. 

One  New  Year's  Eve  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  secretary  telling  me  that  he  wished  me  to 
keep  a  calendar.  "  It  does  n't  matter  for  us 
older  ones,"  he  said,  "  for  our  lives  are  tinted 
with  the  sober  grays  of  evening ;  but  you  others, 
you  young  ones,  who  never  know  what  is  coming 
to  you,  are  as  happy  as  the  song-birds  one  min- 
ute, and  ready  to  break  your  hearts  the  next 
because  of  sorrow  and  disappointment.  Your 
lives  are  like  pictures  with  brilliant  lights  and 
deep  shadows  contrasted. 

"  Now  it  is  a  fact  that  all  of  us  have  more 
bright  spots  than  shadows  in  our  lives,  especially 
while  we  are  young,  but  as  we  grow  older  we 
do  not  belie\'e  it,  perhaps  because  our  sorrowful 
moods  are  easier  to  remember  than  our  joyful 
ones ;  but  if  you  keep  a  record  of  the  gleams 
of  gladness  that  brighten  your  life,  you  will  be 
astonished,  when  you  look  back,  to  find  how 
much  happiness  you  have  enjo)-ed,and  then,  too, 
it  will  always  be  a  pleasure  to  recall  the  memory 
of  past  joys. 

"  The  keeping  of  a  calendar,"  he  went  on,  "  is 
a  very  easy  matter.     All  that  you  need  is  the 
Vol.  XVII.— 21.  185 

calendar,  a  clean  pen,  and  a  bottle  of  red  ink. 
Every  evening  you  take  out  your  calendar,  and, 
if  the  day  has  been  a  happy  one,  draw  a  red 
line  all  around  the  date;  if  it  brought  you  only 
some  gleams  of  gladness,  make  a  red  dot  for 
every  gleam;  and  if  it  was  a  day  of  sorrow  un- 
relieved by  any  brightness,  leave  the  date  blank, 
surrounded  only  by  its  own  black  line." 

Well,  of  course  I  was  delighted  with  the  idea, 
and  also  with  the  calendar  and  pen  which  ac- 
companied the  letter ;  and  as  New  Year's  Day 
was  a  day  of  unalloyed  gladness,  although  the 
doctor  kept  me  a  close  prisoner  all  the  time,  I 
drew  a  red  line  all  round  the  date. 

Since  then  my  brother  has  had  a  long  illness, 
and  my  mother  broke  down  under  the  strain  of 
nursing  him,  and  me,  for  I  was  ill  too ;  but  for 
all  that,  if  you  could  only  see  how  my  calendar  is 
illuminated  with  red  all  through,  you  would  be 
convinced  that  my  life  is  a  happy  one;  and  I  do 
really  believe  that  it  is  all  the  brighter  for  my 
calendar.  It  forces  me  to  notice  the  bright  mo- 
ments that  come  every  day,  and  which  would 
otherwise  be  lost  in  the  shadows. 

The  calendar  I  have,  however,  was  not  in- 
tended for  "  keeping."  It  does  very  well  to 
show  which  days  were  happy  and  which  were 
not,  but  there  is  no  space  for  writing  a  word  or 
two  to  tell  the  cause  of  the  pleasure  or  why 
some  of  the  dates  are  left  blank ;  but  next  year 
there  will,  perhaps,  be  a  calendar  made  expressly 
for  the  use  I  have  described.  I  suppose  I  am 
the  first  who  ever  kept  such  a  calendar.  Keep- 
ing a  diary  is  quite  another  matter.  There  ought 
to  be  a  space  with  each  date  for  a  few  words  to 
explain  the  causes  of  the  brightness  of  some  days, 
and  the  colorlessness  of  others. 

I  hope  that  next  year  everybody  will  keep  a 
calendar,  for  I  feel  quite  sure  that  all  who  do  so 
will  find  great  pleasure  in  it. 


By  H.  Butterworth. 

Glory  in  the  Highest  "  be  sung  in  an 

anteroom  or  choir-gallery,    this  dialogue  may  be  used 
as  a  recitation,  with  musical  accompaniment. 

"  Where  have  you  come  from,  Mabel  mine, 
While   the  stars   still   shine,  the   stars  still 
With  a  happy  dream  in  those  eyes  of  thine, 
Early,  this  Christmas  morning  ?  " 

"  I  've  just  come  back  from  Slumber-land  ; 
1  've  come  from  the  night  in  Slumber-land ; 
I  've  come  from  the  stars  in  Slumber-land ; 
I  've  come  from  the  music  in  Slumber-land, 
Early,  this  Christmas  morning." 

"  What  did  you  see  there  in  the  night, 

Mabel  mine,  Mabel  mine  ?  " 
"  I  saw  a  stable  and  star-lamp's  light, 

Early,  this  Christmas  morning. 

"  I  saw  a  stable  in  Slumber-land, 

And  a  little  Babe  A\-ith  a  snow-white  hand. 
And  'round  the  Babe  the  dumb  beasts  stand. 
Early,  this  Christmas  morning." 

"  AMiat  did  you  hear  in  Slumber-land, 

Mabel  mine,  Mabel  mine  ?  " 
"  Music,  Mother,  a  song  divine, 

Early,  this  Christmas  morning." 



"  ■Wliat  was  the  song  that  tlie  voices  sung, 

■•V\^;^^vSS^J  "  ^^'l^^t  ^^-as  the  song  that  tlie  voices  sun- 
<\  y^c^Wl       ^^  '"'"  '"■^'  """  '^^^'^  th^  'o^^  ^ta^s  hung  ; 

^«  D-^  \  V^  ''     •'''*"  ^'™°^'  ^^^"  "  ^'''^  '"  the  sky, 

\J<^3ik\  \'         'Listen,  listpn ti,o  cfw„.-     ,j__         •' ,  . 


■Listen,  Hsten,— the  strain  draws  nigh  ! 
'  Glory  in  the  highest !  Glory !  '  " 

"  ^^'hat  else  did  you  see  in  Slumber-land, 

Mabel  mine,  Mabel  mine  ?  " 
"  I  saw  the  shepherds  listening  stand, 

Early,  this  Christmas  morning." 

"  What  said  the  shepherds  there  on  the  plain  ? " 
"  They  touched  their  reeds  and  answered  the  strain 
'  Glory  m  the  highest !   Glory  !  ' 
\\-hen  the  angels  ceased,  the  shepherds  sung 

'  Glory  in  the  highest !  Glory  ! ' 
And  the  earth  and  sky  with  the  anthem  rung, 
'  Glory  m  the  highest !  Glory  I '" 

"  O  Mabel,  Mabel,  your  dream  was  sweet, 
And  sweet  to  my  soul  is  your  story ; 
Like  the  shepherd's  song  let  our  lips  repeat 
'  Glory  in  the  highest !  Glory  ! '  " 


"  Plkase  give  us  some  more  stories  by  Miss  Alcott  — 
we  want  so  much  another  long  serial  by  Miss  Alcotl," 
was  the  request  that  came  to  us  again  and  again  from 
hundreds  of  our  young  readers  in  the  years  lately  flown ; 
and  again  and  again  their  beloved  author  complied,  striv- 
ing to  meet  their  demand  —  in  heart  and  will  devoted  to 
her  faithful  work.  And  now  that  she  can  tell  them  no 
more,  a  truer  story  than  them  all  has  been  sent  out  to 
the  world  by  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  of  Boston  —  a 
story  told  by  her  own  earnest  and  inspiring  life :  "  Louisa 
M<iy  Alcott :  Her  Life,  Letters,  and  Journals.  Edited  by 
Ednah  1).  Cheney." 

The  book  will  endear  her  more  than  ever  to  thousands  of 
boys  and  girls,  for  in  some  respects  it  is  like  a  new  part 
of  "Little  Women,"  appealing  also  to  the  now  grown-up 
generation   of  early  admirers  of  the   brave   and  good 

"  March"  family.    The  pages  contain  two  excellent  por- 
traits of  Miss  Alcott,  and  facsimiles  of  some  of  her  letters. 

Jack-i.\-thePulpit,  who  has,  this  month,  given  his 
two  pages  to  Mr.  Butterworlh's  "  For  Christmas  Day," 
will  greet  his  merry  crowd  again  in  the  January  number. 

He  bids  us  give  you,  all,  his  compliments  and  the 
best  wishes  of  the  season  And  he  also  asks  us  to  correct 
an  error  that  slipped  into  his  sermon  last  month.  The 
credit  of  those  big  Thanksgiving  pumpkins,  he  says,  be- 
longs to  Southern  California,  not  to  Nebraska.  The 
photograph  that  came  to  liim  had,  by  some  oversight, 
been  wrongly  inscribed  —  and  he  says  no  one  can  judge 
merely  by  the  expression  of  a  pumpkin's  face  where  in 
the  world  it  comes  from.  Everything  depends  upon  its 
being  properly  presented. 


Tacoma,  W.  T. 

My  Dear  St.  Nichoijis:  You  will  consider  me  a 
pretty  Urge  "boy,"  I  fancy,  to  write  letters  to  the  St. 
Nicholas,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  a  full-grown  man 
of  twenty,  already  in  business.  But  I  thought  it  might 
interest  your  young  re.iders  to  get  a  letter  from  this  far 
distant  but  most  beautiful  "  City  of  Destiny,"  as  it  is 
called.  We — my  brother  and  myself  —  have  taken  your 
magazine  ever  since  the  first  number  was  issued,  and  we 
have  every  volume  complete,  neatly  bound.  So  much  do 
we  value  it,  that  we  shall  continue  subscribers  as  long 
as  we  live,  and  we  hope  our  children  and  grandchildren 
may  enjoy  it  as  much  as  we  do.  ^'ou  published,  some 
years  ago,  a  letter  we  sent  to  you,  as  having  been  ihc /rst 
chiUren  to  ni.ike  the  ascent  of  Mount  Marcy,  the  highest 
peak  of  the  .\dirondacks,  in  1S77.  I  wish  you  had  space 
to  publish  all  I  should  like  to  write  .about  this  wonder- 
fully thriving  city  on  the  shores  of  Puget  Sound,  not  very 
far  from  Alaska,  and  the  region  made  famous  by  the 
Arctic  exploring  expeditions.  I  should  like  to  interest 
the  children  of  the  East  in  the  beautiful  I'acific  Coast 
country  in  this  section  of  the  land,  so  wonderful  in  its 
developments,  so  fertile  in  resources. 

I  hope  to  attempt  the  ascent  of  Mount  Tacoma,  over 
fourteen  thousand  feet  high  and  always  snow-capped, 
and,  if  I  do,  will  give  you  my  experience. 

I  will  just  mention  that  there  are  few,  if  any,  birds 
here ;  no  cats  except  such  as  are  brought  from  other 
places,  and  a  scarcity  of  dogs. 

But  I  have  taken  up  too  much  space  already,  although 
there  is  much  of  absorbing  interest  to  young  and  old  that 
I  could  write  about  from  this  distant  part  of  our  Union. 

Very  sincerely,  your  "old"  boy,  W.  A.  B . 


Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  Morriston  n  is  a  very  pretty 
and  healthy  place,  about  thirty  miles  from  New  York ; 
and  there  are  many  beautiful  places  here.  There  is  a 
very  fine  girls'  school,  which  I  attend. 

1  will  now  tell  you  about  my  pets.  I  have  one  kitten 
and  three  turtles.  My  kitten,  "Bright  Eyes,"  is  a  small, 
gray  striped  kitten,  jly  turtles  are  "Apollo,"  "  Diana," 
and  "Venus  "  Apollo  is  an  orange  and  black  turtle. 
I  have  not  tamed   him  very  well  yet,  and  he  is  quite 

cross.  Diana  is  yellow  and  black,  and  exceedingly  gentle, 
and  feeds  out  of  my  hands.  Venus  is  my  little  water- 
turtle.  His  back  is  black,  with  small,  bright  orange  spots 
on  it,  and  underneath  it  has  three  stripes,  two  black  and 
one  a  sort  of  pinkish  orange.  He  also  feeds  out  of  my 
hands.  Turtles  like  to  eat  all  kinds  of  berries,  meat,  and 
some  vegetables.  They  sleep  very  soundly,  and  some- 
times snore.       Your  constant  reader,  K . 

New  River,  White  Sulphur,  Va. 
Dear  St.  Nicholas:  I  am  a  little  girl,  eleven  years 
old,  and  I  have  been  spending  a  month  at  these  Springs 
with  my  mother  and  father,  and  my  three  brothers  and 
my  sister  Grace.  The  Indians  used  to  call  the  New 
River"rhe  River  of  Death."  It  is  so  dangerous,  though 
very  beautiful.  Here  it  flows  through  cliffs  three  hun- 
dred feet  high.  They  are  of  perpendicular  gray  rock, 
and  clothed  with  lovely  vines,  and,  with  dark  cedars 
springing  up  in  every  nook,  are  just  like  huge  ruined 
castles.  .At  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  the  river  runs  so  deep  it 
has  never  been  sounded.  Seven  miles  from  here  is  Moun- 
tain Lake — a  salt  hike  three  thousand  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea  —  at  the  top  of  all  the  mountains,  and  from 
the  top  of"  Bald  Knob,"  one  of  them,  you  can  see  five 
States.  When  Sr.  Nicholas  came  here  this  month,  we 
each  of  us  were  willing  to  take  care  of  our  two-year-old 
brother  three  hours,  for  the  sake  of  reading  it.  And 
Mother  said  she  wished  it  would  come  every  day.  She 
did  not  think  we  would  be  like  the  little  girl  who  became 
so  sick  of  Christmas.  The  presents  this  St.  NichoLj\s 
brings  of  splendid  stories  are  so  much  more  durable  than 
those  of  the  other  St.  Nick. 

Aflfectionately,  your  friend,  Anna  C.  S . 

My  Dear  Friend  St.  Nicholas  :  I  have  intended 
for  quite  a  long  time  to  tell  you  about  my  "  Mother 
Goose  "  scrap-book.  My  first  idea  of  it  came  when  I  the  article  in  the  August  number,  for  18S3.  It  was 
called  "  Home-made  Mother  Goose,"  and  proposed  that 
all  who  were  wear)'  of  pasting  their  advertisement  cards 
in  books,  should  make  a  book  of  linen,  and  use  cards  and 


parts  of  them  cut  out,  to  illustrate  the  ■'  Mother  Goose  " 
melodies.  Well,  I  concluded  to  try  it,  and  only  now,  in 
1SS9,  is  my  book  completed.  To  begin  with,  I  m.ide  a 
book  out  of  paper-musUn,  which  had  twenty-two  leaves, 
and  I  used  but  one  side  of  the  page.  It  was  no  easy 
matter,  for  I  often  waited  months  for  a  particular  part 
I  needed.  My  friends  all  remembered  me,  and  looked 
out  for  figures.  I  remember,  in  the  rhyme,  "  One,  two, 
buckle  my  shoe,"  when  I  came  to  "  Eleven,  twelve,  toil 
and  delve,"  I  could  find  nothing  that  was  suited  for  it. 
At  last  I  found  a  card,  of  some  children  playing  on  the 
sea-shore.  I  put  two  rhymes  on  a  page,  except  when 
they  were  long.  Now,  I  did  not  think  that  the  book 
would  be  very  satisfactory  without  the  words ;  so  I 
printed  in  the  rhyme  with  water-colors.  I  soon  found 
that  red  and  blue  were  the  best  to  work  with.  It  was 
rather  hard  to  use  a  brush  on  the  muslin,  for,  unless  great 
care  was  taken,  the  letters  would  be  dauby.  Tlie  words 
are  printed  right  in  with  the  picture,  around  it,  and  all 
sides  of  it. 

"Climbing  up  the  Golden  Stairs"  was  very  popular  at 
that  time,  so  here  I  used  my  darky  cards.  I  illustrated 
the  first  verse.  The  "  golden  stairs  "  are  pieces  of  gilt 
paper,  pasted  in  like  steps,  which  go  up  to  the  top  of  the 
page.  One  of  the  darkies  is  stepping  up,  playing  on  a 
tambourine.  A  little  fellow  is  falhng  off  the  last  step. 
He  looks  exceedingly  surprised;  while  "Aunt  Dinah" 
is  traveling  slowly  and  surely  upward.  The  "Dude"  is 
as  dudish  as  one  could  wish,  while  "  Old  Peter  "  is  ready 
to  hand  you  "the  ticket,"  which  happens  to  be  a  pass  on 
the  D.  L.  and  W.  R.  R.,  over  "  Hoboken  Ferry."  I  had 
such  a  time  to  find  any  "  half  a  dollar,"  but  a  friend  pro- 
cured a  pictured  one  from  a  bank-book,  which  "  Sambo  " 
offers  in  his  outstretched  hand.  At  last,  last  winter  I 
finished  it,  and  had  it  bound  with  a  dark  red,  flexible 
cover.  I  named  it  "  Pluckings  from  Mother  Goose,  by 
One  of  Her  Goslings,"  and  I  dedicated  it  to  my  Uttle 
sister.  Nan.  and  her  large  darky  doll,  "TopS)'." 

We  children  enjoy  you  so  much,  and  never  get  tired 
of  reading  over  the  old  stories.  I  wish  that  Mrs.  Dodge 
would  write  us  another  story.  Hers  are  so  enjoyable. 
We  all  liked  the  story  that  has  just  finished,  "A  Bit  of 
Color,"  and  agree  that  "  Betty"  must  have  been  a  lovely 
girl ;  one  we  should  like  to  know. 

The  town  of  Dunmore  is  two  miles  from  Scranton. 
We  have  two  different  lines  of  electric  cars  running  into 
the  town,  wliich  make  it  seem  very  near  to  Scranton. 
Our  ugly-looking  culm  piles  are  being  utilized  as 
"plants"  for  the  making  of  electricity.  When  we  go 
away,  and  see  the  "  horse-cars,"  they  seem  very  much 
"behind  the  times." 

I  would  like  to  know  whether  any  one  else  tried  the 
"  Mother  Goose  "  scrap-book,  and  with  w-hat  success. 

Well,  good-bye,  dear  St.  Nicholas,  and  with  many 
wishes  for  a  long  and  happy  life  to  you,  I  am, 

Vour  sincere  friend,  Helen  M . 

Alameda,  Cal. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  I  would  like  to  write  a  letter 
to  my  dear  and  esteemed  friend,  St.  Nicholas,  hoping 
that  its  constant  readers  may  see  this  in  the  "  Letter- 
box." I  am  a  man  near  fifty-eight  years  old,  and  its 
readers  may  not  think  a  man  of  my  age  should  write  a 
letter  to  a  magazine  of  its  class.  I  like  the  story  of 
"Grandpapa's  Coat,"  and  "  Laetitia  and  the  Redcoats," 
which  we  understand  to  be  the  British  of  those  times. 
I  shall  always  esteem  it  as  my  home  friend.  I  have 
several  volumes  and  will  have  them  bound.  I  remain. 
Your  constant  reader,  Josephus  P . 

P.  S. — If  proper,  place  this  letter  in  "Letter-box." 
I  enjoyed  the  two  stories  above,  and  could  n't  help 
reading  them  over  and  over  again. 


Lakeside,  Lake  O.vtario,  N.  Y. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas:  We  —  a  family  of  six — are 
spending  the  four  summer  months  on  the  shore  of 
beautiful  blue  Ontario.  It  is  a  quiet  place,  about  forty 
miles  from  Niagara  Falls,  with  a  dozen  or  so  cottages, 
and  a  low,  rambling  hotel  among  the  trees. 

My  mother,  sister,  and  myself  are  very  fond  of  walking, 
and  take  long  tramps,  seeing  the  country  and  the  people, 
which  latter  we  often  find  amusing.  Our  longest  tramp 
was  to  Albion,  a  town  ten  miles  away,  and  back  the  same 
day.  We  were  only  three  and  a  half  hours  going  in,  but 
longer  coming  back. 

We  went  one  day  to  see  an  old  lady  who  still  spins 
and  weaves  her  own  linen  and  cotton.  She  was  im- 
mensely amused  to  learn  where  we  lived,  and  said,  "  To 
think  o'  comin'  all  the  way  from  Washington,  to  go  to 
the  mouth  o'  Johnson's  Creek  !  You  must  ha'  been  hard 
up  !  "    She  thought  the  President  lives  in  the  Capitol. 

Another  old  lady  told  Mother  she  had  never  been  away 
from  the  farm  a  day  since  she  was  married,  but  added, 
proudly,  that  she  "  was  born  south  of  here."  Inquiry 
revealed  the  fact  that  she  "  had  been  born  on  a  farm  two 
miles  south  of  here,"  and  only  left  it  for  her  present 

We  have  found  several  odd  localisms,  one  of  which  is, 
"  quite  a  few,"  meaning  a  large  number,  and  another, 
"  right  smart  and  away  of  a  walk,"  means  a  long  distance. 

In  June,  I  made  a  study  of  tadpoles,  putting  several  into 
an  improvised  aquarium.  They  were  almost  black,  about 
an  inch  long,  and  it  was  very  interesting  to  see  first  the 
hind  legs  come  out,  then  the  fore  legs,  and,  finally,  the  tail 
dwindle  to  nothing.  At  that  stage  they  were  brown,  with 
dark  spots,  and  barely  half  an  inch  long.  I  let  them  go, 
and  they  hopped  round  the  road  and  fields.  Their  com- 
rades in  the  little  pond  had  all  developed,  and  were 
likewise  hopping  in  the  fields. 

Now,  a  few  weeks  ago,  as  I  was  w^atching  the  odd 
water-animals  there,  I  saw  two  gray-green  tadpoles,  or 
pollywogs,  nearly  three  inches  long,  with  undeveloped 
legs.  And,  recently,  a  brilliant  green  froglet,  about  an 
inch  and  a  half  long,  has  come  up  to  greet  me.  Can  any 
country  boy  or  girl  tell  me  whether  the  smaller  ones  were 
toads?  And  which  is  the  correct  name  —  tadpoles  or 
pollywogs  ? 

If  I  have  made  my  letter  too  long,  dear  St.  Nicholas, 
as  I  fear,  could  you  please  find  room  for  the  lafet  part  ? 
I  was  going  to  write  to  "  Jack-in-the-Pulpit,"  and  ask 
him  about  the  "  tads,"  but  he  seemed  to  be  taking  a 
vacation  with  the  rest  of  his  congregation. 

It  is  needless  to  tell  you  how  much  you  are  enjoyed, 
from  Grandpa  to  the  youngest.  With  best  wishes  for 
St.  Nicholas,  from  Edith  F.  K . 

Orange,  N.  J. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  We  have  taken  your  charming 
magazine  for  seven  or  eight  years,  since  I  was  only  four 
years  old.  That  was  while  we  were  in  Germany.  How 
glad  we  were  to  see  it  every  month,  and  how  we  did 
enjoy  "  Lord  Fauntleroy"!  Some  of  our  German  and 
English  friends  enjoyed  the  magazine,  too,  very  much, 
and  since  we  came  back  we  sometimes  send  it  over  to 
Munich.  I  studied  drawing  there,  and  I  hope,  some 
day,  to  be  able  to  illustrate  for  dear  St.  Nicholas. 

This  spring  we  set  a  hen  on  ducks'  eggs ;  only  one 
came  out,  and  the  mother  took  care  of  it  as  long  as  she 
was  shut  up  in  a  coop.  When  the  mother  was  let  out, 
she  left  her  little  duck  of  three  weeks.  Another  hen, 
with  seven  chickens,  at  once  went  to  the  little  duck's 
coop  and  took  care  of  it  at  night,  and  took  it  about  with 
her  family  all  day.  We  thought  she  was  so  kind,  but  to 
our  surprise,  after  ten  days,  when  she  had  taught  the 
duck  to  look  after  her  chickens,  she  left  them  to  the 
entire  care  of  the  little  orphan  nurse.     We  found  that  it 



was  ihe  duck  that  deserved  praise,  for,  although  she  is 
full-grown  now,  she  never  goes  around  with  the  other 
ducks,  but  slill  takes  care  of  these  now  large  chickens, 
and  sleeps  in  their  coop  at  night.  Is  that  not  a  remark- 
able duck  ? 

Your  devoted  reader,  G.  B.  C . 

having  been  in  danger  so  much  as  she  minded  her  hair 
being  burned  off.  Now,  this  is  all  I  remember.  So, 

I  remain,  your  affectionate  reader, 

Klizabeth  S . 

St.  Paul,  Minn. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  I  wonder  if  any  of  your  little 
readers  ever  had  such  a  nice  present  as  mine  on  my 
ninth  birthday, —  a  full  set  of  St.  Nicholas,  hand- 
somely bound  !  That  was  a  year  ago,  and  I  think  there 
has  not  been  a  day  since  when  they  have  not  been  used 
by  my  brother  or  myself.  It  would  be  hard  to  tell  what 
we  like  best.     We  like  it  all. 

I  live  fourteen  hundred  miles  from  my  grandma's  and 
grandpa's,  uncles'  and  aunties',  but  I  go  to  see  them  nearly 
every  year.  The  boys  and  girls  have  great  fun  there  in 
the  winter-time.  We  never  think  of  staying  in  the  house 
here  because  it  is  cold.  If  we  have  an  ice  palace  this 
winter,  I  will  send  any  of  your  subscribers,  who  will 
send  me  a  stamp,  a  good  picture  of  the  palace. 

I  hope  to  take  you  as  long  as  I  live,  and  then  leave 
you  to  my  children. 

Truly  your  friend,  MARION  W . 

Constantinople,  Turkey. 

Dear  St.  Nicholas  :  .V  little  while  ago  I  went  to  a 
Greek  christening,  and  I  thought  that  perhaps  you  would 
like  to  hear  about  it.  Sometimes  it  takes  place  in  a 
house  and  sometimes  m  a  church.  The  one  I  saw  was 
in  the  house.     This  is  the  w.iy  it  was  done : 

First,  two  priests  came  in  with  a  man,  who  carried  a 
large  metal  thing  on  his  back  which  looked  something 
like  a  b,-ith.  This  was  the  font.  He  put  it  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  filled  it  with  warm  water  and 
oil.  While  he  was  doing  this,  the  priests  let  down  their 
hair  and  put  on  their  robes.  Then  one  took  the  baby, 
which  was  quite  naked,  and  dipped  it  three  limes  in  the 
font,  saying  prayers  at  the  same  time.  After  that  it  was 
taken  out  and  put  into  a  lot  of  clean,  new  linen  and  given 
to  the  godfather,  who  walked  three  limes  round  the 
font  with  the  child  in  his  arms,  while  the  priests  scat- 
tered incense  about  and  said  some  more  prayers.  Then 
the  mother  took  the  baby  and  bound  it  up  tightly  in  long 
bands,  tied  a  little  muslin  cap  on  its  head,  and  put  it  to 
bed.  At  the  beginnin;;  each  guest  received  a  lighted 
candle  to  hold ;  and  when  it  was  over  they  gave  every 
one  a  little  piece  of  money  which  had  a  hole  in  it  and  a 
piece  of  blue  and  white  ribbon  tied  to  it.  You  are  ex- 
pected to  pin  this  upon  your  dress  till  you  go  away. 
They  gave  the  guests  sweets.  Sometimes  instead  of 
money  they  have  little  silver  crosses.  The  godfather  or 
godmother  provides  everything  —  the  baby's  dress  and 
clothes,  the  sweets  and  crosses,  and  also  gives  the  baby 
a  present.  The  candles  are  rather  dangerous,  xs  they 
give  them  to  little  children  as  well  as  grown  people.  A 
little  child  behind  me  burned  off  some  of  her  front  hair. 
She  did  not  burn  very  much  off,  as  I  caught  sight  of  her 
just  in  time,  and  I  told  the  mother,  who  was  very  much 
disgusted.     But  she  did  not  seem  to  mind  the  child's 

Mardin,  Turkey  in  Asia. 
My  Dear  St.  Nicholas:  I  am  twelve  years  old,  and 
have  taken  you  for  three  years,  and  enjoy  you  very  much. 
To  get  to  me,  you  have  to  ride  on  horseback  six  hundred 
miles,  for  the  post  is  brought  by  horses  from  Samsoon.on 
the  Black  Sea,  to  Mardin,  and  takes  them  from  nine  to 
ten  days.  From  where  our  houses  stand,  we  can  see 
the  plain  of  Mesopotamia  stretching  away  to  the  south, 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  hundreds  of  miles  far- 
ther. A  few  months  ago  a  parly  of  us  went  down  on  the 
Clain  to  a  village  named  Dara  —  supposed  to  have  been 
uill  by  Darius,  the  great  king.  It  is  all  in  ruins  now. 
We  saw  the  remains  of  immense  buildings.  One  was 
said  to  have  been  the  palace  of  the  king.  Another  was 
entirely  underground.  It  is  thought  it  was  a  prison. 
There  was  the  ruin  of  a  reservoir  large  enough  to  supply 
the  whole  city  with  water  during  a  long  siege.  The  city 
was  surrounded  by  a  great  wall,  high  and  wide,  and  out- 
side of  the  wall  was  a  large  moat.  Right  through  the 
city  is  the  bed  of  a  large  river,  which  is  now  but  a  small 
stream.  Across  it  is  a  bridge  that  has  lasted  to  this  time. 
It  has  two  tracks,  as  if  they  were  worn  by  chariot  wheels. 
On  the  tops  ofmany  of  the  ruins  were  storks"  nests.  There 
is  a  small  village  there  now.  The  people  that  live  in  it 
are  all  Moslems.  It  took  us  —  or  rather  we  took  —  two 
days  to  ride  there;  it  is  only  eighteen  miles  from  here. 
But  we  went  out  for  a  good  time,  and  did  not  hurry. 
I  have  an  .Xrabian  colt,  only  two  years  old,  that  I  ride 
nearly  every  day ;  his  name,  in  Arabic,  is  "  Karrumful," 
meaning  Clirves.  My  sister  Minnie,  four  years  younger 
than  myself,  has  a  little  white  Bagdad  donkey  named 
"  Filfil,"  meaning  Pepper. 

I^st  you  get  tired  of  me,  I  will  bid  you  good-bye  for 
this  time,  always  wishing,  dear  St.  Nicholas,  the  best 
of  success.     I  am  ever  your  true  friend, 

Nellie  E.  T . 

We  thank  the  young  friends  whose  names  here  follow 
for  pleasant  letters  received  from  them :  Eunice  O.,  Ella 
G.  S.,  Blanche  Keat,  John  D.  M.,  Adele  and  Jessie, 
Alice  Putnam,  Marion  Clothier,  May  N.  H.,  Marguerite 
B.,  Gertrude  C.  P.,  Freddy  R.,  Marion  E.  S..  "  Evie," 
Ernestine  Bobbins,  Anna  FitzGerald,  Allan  Moorfield, 
C.  L.  Darling,  Frank  D.  C,  Sacka  de  T.  Jones,  Maria 
de  T.  Jones,  .-Mlerton  Cushman  Crane,  Daisy  A.  Sylla, 
K.  B  ,  Lola  Barrows,  Fannie  L.  H.,  Matchie  Willing- 
ham,  Etta  Levy,  Lillie  Jacobs,  Kathleen  Howard,  Mabel 
Maynard,  Patty  Gregg,  P.  L.  D.,  Isabel  C,  W.  Palmer, 
Olive  Knibbs,  L.  L.  W.,  Alta  Fellows  and  Ruth  Myers, 
"  Ethel."  Nora  Walker,  E.  C.  Wood,  Mary  B.  Tartt,  Marie 
Buchanan,  Sadie  F.,  Lionel  Ilein,  Kate  J.,  .^nna  N.  H., 
Eloise  and  Lucienne,  Maude  D.,  Daisy  S.,  Lizzie  W. 
Leary,  Hattie  S.  Fitch,  R.  M.  and  A.  F.,  Bessie  Long- 
bridge,  Mary  Caldwell,  Ravmond  Buck,  Maud  C.  Max- 



Rhomboid.  Across:  i.  Porte.  2.  Harms.  3.  Games. 

4.  Peris.     5.  Tenor. 

Pi.  'T  is  the  time 

Wlien  the  chime 
Of  the  season's  choral  band  is  ringing  out. 
SmoI<y  brightness  fills  the  air, 
For  the  light  winds  everywhere 
Censers  full  of  flowery  embers  swing  about. 
There  is  sweetness  that  oppresses, 
As  a  tender  parting  blesses ; 
There  's  a  softened  glow  of  beauty, 
.\s  when  Love  is  wreathing  Duty ; 
There  are  melodies  that  seem 
Weaving  past  and  future  into  one  fair  dream. 
Lucy  Larcom,  "  The  Indian  Summer." 
Quadruple  Acrostic.    First  row,  demeans;  second, 
oversee ;    fifth,    accuses ;    sixth,   leeside.    Cross-words : 
I.  Dorsal.  2.  Evince.    3.  Menace.  4.  Erebus.    5.  Assisi. 
6.  Needed.     7.  Setose. 

Word-square,   i.  Doses.  2.  Obole.  3.  Solid.  4.  Eliza. 

5.  Sedan. Charade.     Whole-some. 

Numerical  E.vigma. 

There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills, 
The  frost  is  on  the  pane. 
Illustrated    Acrostic.      Bryant.      Cross-words  : 
I.    caBbage.     2.    haRness.     3.    toYshop.     4.    crAvats. 

5.  caNteen.     6.  buTtons. Riddle.     Pillow. 

Diagonal  Puzzle.  Thomson,  i. Tempest.  2.tHroned. 
3.   moOrish.    4.   diaMond.    5.  modeSty.    6.  kingdOm. 

7.  ruffiaN. 

Broken  Words.  Thanksgiving,  Old  Homestead. 
I.  Turn  Over.  2.  Hire  Ling.  3.  Anti  Dote.  4.  Night 
Hawk.     5.   Keels  On.     6.   Sides  Man.     7.   Gods  End. 

8.  Inter  Scribe,    g.  Vesper  Tine.    10.  Imp  End.   11.  Not 
Able.    12.  Glad  Den. 

Double    Acrostic.      Primals,    Capratina ;     finals, 
Dindymene.     Cross-words  :     I.    CarotiD.     2.    .\lfierl. 
3.  PenguiN.     4.   RumoreD.     5.  AbilitY.     6.  TransoM. 
7.   ImpingE.     8.   NankeeN.     9.  .'\ndantE. 
Proverb  Puzzle. 

May  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 
-■^nd  health  on  both. 

To  our  Puzzlers  :  Answers,  to  be  acknowledged  in  the  magazine,  must  be  received  not  later  than  the  15th 
of  each  month,  and  should  be  addressed  to  St.  Nicholas  "  Riddle-box,"  care  of  The  Century  Co.,  33  East 
Seventeenth  St.,  New  York  City. 

Answers  to  all  the  Puzzles  in  the  September  Number  were  received,  before  September  15th,  from 
Arthur  Gride — Paul  Reese  —  Maude  E.  Palmer  —  J.  Russell  Davis  —  Pearl  F.  Stevens  —  A  Family  Affair  — 
Jamie  and  Mamma — Mamma,  .Aunt  Martha,  and  Sharley  —  Nellie  L.  Howes  —  Maxie  and  Jackspar — "  Wit  and 
Humor" — Blanche  and  Fred — Helen  C.  McCleary  —  Jo  and  I  —  Henry  Guilford — Ida  C.  Thallon  —  Mathilde, 
Ida,  and  Alice. 

Answers  to  Puzzles  in  the  September  Number  were  received,  before  September  15th.  from  J.  Norman 
Carpenter,  i  —  L.  T.,  i  —  Emma  Sydney,  S  —  .Arthur  B.  Lawrence,  4 —  M.  E.  W.,  1  —  Clara  and  Emma,  i  —  M. 
H.,  I  —  Papa  and  Honora,  I  —  Susy  I.  Myers,  2  —  May  Cadwallader,  I — Guy  H.  Purdy,  3  —  Sadie  and 
Mary  F.,  2 — M.  H.  V.,  5  —  Kitty,  Bessie,  and  Eugene.  3  —  R.  M.  and  A.  F.,  i  —  Elsie  Rosenbaum,  2  — 
"  Wamba,  Prince  Charming,  and  Molly  Bawn,"  5 — John  W.  Frothingham,Jr.,4  —  "  Karl  and  Queen  Elizabeth,"  8  — 
Gita  and  Pink,  9 — Clara  and  O. ,  4  —  Charlie  Rata  and  Ernie  Sharp,  4 — "  We  Two,"  8 — B.  F.  R.,9 — Sissie  Hun- 
ter, 3  — Marion  S.  Dumont,  2  — J.  M.  Wright,  5  — "May  and  79,"  8  — Irvin  V.  G.  Gillis,  10  — Albert  E.  Clay, 
10  —  "AH  of  Us,"  3  —  Jim,  Tom,  and  Charlie,  10 —  Efiie  K.  Talboys,  7 —  Carrie  Holzman,  2  —  Gert  and  Fan,  6-^ 
G.  Goldfrank,  7  —  Adrienne  Forrester,  5  —  Nagrom,  3  —  Katie  Guthrie,  3  —  Eleulhera  Smith,  5  —  .A.  A.  Smith,  i  — 
Three  American  Readers,  4  —  Kendrick  Family,  i  — No  Name,  Conn.,  5  —  A.  W.  Bartlett,  I — G.  Harwood,  6. 


I.   In  muscular.     2.   Reverence.     3.   Songs  or  tunes. 

4.  A  wooden  instrument  used  for  cleaning  flax.  5.  Gold 
coins  of  the  United  States.  6.  To  become  unconscious. 
7.  To  discover.  F.  s.  F. 


The  letters  in  each  of  the  following  thirteen  groups 
may  be  transposed  so  as  to  form  one  word.  When  these 
are  rightly  guessed  they  will  answer  to  the  following 
definitions:  i.  Relating  to  color.  2.  Half  a  poetic  verse. 
3.  -A  name  for  buttercups,  given  them  by  Pliny,  because 
the  aquatic  species  grow  where  frogs  abound.     4.  Just. 

5.  Benumbed.     6.   Shaped  like  a  top.     7.  The  summer 

solstice,  June  21.  8.  Mineral  pitch.  9.  Layers  of  earth 
lying  under  other  layers.  10.  The  more  volatile  parts  of 
substances,  separated  by  solvents.  11.  Accused.  12.  The 
goddess  of  discord.     13.  The  utmost  point. 

1.  I  match  roc. 

2.  She  hit  mic. 

3.  I  run  clan  U. 

4.  A  limp  rat.  I. 

5.  Fed,  I  set  up. 

6.  I  run  at  Bet. 

7.  Rimm  mused. 
S.  Put  a  sham  L. 
9.   As  tar  tubs. 

10.  I  rust  cent. 

11.  Dime  peach. 

12.  Cari  is  odd. 

13.  Extry  time. 

When  the  above  letters  have  been  rightly  transposed, 
and  the  words  placed  one  below  the  other,  the  primals 
will  spell  a  festal  time,  and  the  finals  will  spell  an  anni- 
versary of  the  Church  of  England,  held  on  the  2Sth  of 
December.  f.  s.  f. 




'>  ■ 

vi\  jmcuuch  in  iV^-  .ilvno  lUuvir.ition  may 
be  V  a  »or\1  of  h\T  letters.     When  these  sire 

ri^  i  anil  placcvl  one  below  the  other,  in  the 

orvlei  licie  };ht:h.  the  letters  fn>m  I  to  Jo  t.i>  indicatevl  in 
the  »>.w.>mr>an\-ing  iliagTan*^  *'"  *t<ll  'he  name  of  an 
eniinenl  scnolar  anvi  Jivine  who  wa>  liorii  IVccmber  i?. 

Across;  i.  In  Chinaman.  2.  A  pert  to«n>nian.  5. 
An  old  »-orvl  meanini;  the  crown  of  the  head.  4.  The 
Indian  twme  for  a  lake.  5.  .\  prize  given  at^  H.'ir\-arJ 
I'nix-ersitv.    6,  A  masculine  nickname.    7.  In  l,~hinaman. 

iVnvxwvKl*:  I.  In  Chinaman.  J.  .\  capsule  of  a 
plant.  _v  A  printer's  mark  showing  that  something 
js  interlmcvl.  4.  Men  enrviUe^l  for  military  discipline. 
5.  .\  librous  puHiuct  of  Braril.  6.  The  first  half  of  a 
w-ord  meanini;  «rv  warm.     7.    In  Chinaman. 

H.  AMI  B, 

novnij-;  vrsvi.  acrostic. 

.\l,t  of  the  cross-words  are  of  cqu-il  length.  When 
they  ha\-c  been  rightly  guessed  and  plaocvt  one  below  the 

I ,  »n  the  order  here  gi\Tn.  the 

l.i»t   row  of  letters.  re.iding  up- 

war<l,  « ill  S|K-11   si>mclhini;    often 

read    "  "'  '    '  ■  :  the 

riiw  ticxl   to   t  ^<  ar\l, 

will  v|>ell  some  -:,,  aI  this 

timo  ot  the  year. 

Ck>>ss  woRHS:  I.  Flourishing.  2.  A 
c\>miviny  of  sinjjcrs.  3.  A  nyyv  with  a 
n^x^se.  4.  The  "  W  iiard  of  the  North." 
5.  Baffles,  b.  Small,  insect-eating  mani- 
m.ils.  7.  .\  great  artery  of  the  body.  8, 
.K  maxim  or  aphorism.     9-   Silica. 


YaINISAR  sklapNCt  dole, 
Krarubly  strigtel. 
Charm  mosce  ni.  a  dydum  1 
Kijvil  Kiss  slirett ; 
I'         ■'     '  K-s  reh  dribsc-daim  yam, 
^  1-  wiht  seros  stewe; 

N         :         Ami  fo  wen-monw  yha, 
Knth  hot  scwi-a  fo  delgon  hcwta, 
Tenh  elh  selentin  fo  lall : 
Hent  teh  rawzid  thmon  fo  lal ; 
Neih  het  seridfie  swogl,  d.m  enth 
Cashslrim  scome  ot  hater  aniga. 


The  di.agi->nals,  from  the  upix-r  left  hand  corner  to  the 
lower  rigtii-hand  corner,  spell  the  surname  of  a  famous 
musician  Ivrn  in  1 7^6. 

CKviss-woRr>s  :  i.  Central,  a.  .\  botly  of  .tboul  li\« 
hundreil  soldiers.  %.  .\n  enchanter.  4.  .\  country  of 
North  .\merica.    5.  To  expand.    6.  .\  parcel. 


\  tSKV      rCKSS      ^I^VV      NOKK- 



V     TTOR     \    NEW    YEAR- 
READV     FOR    -^ 


Vol.  XVII. 

JANUARY,    1890. 

Copyright,  1889,  by  The  Centiry  Co.     All  rights  reserved. 

No.  3, 

By  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 

IGH  in  the  mountain.s  where  we  went 

To  have  our  Christmas  among  the  snows, 
The  far  white  slopes  stretched  up  the  sky 

Where  the  young  moon  sank  and  the  great  stars  rose  ; 
And  with  every  gust  of  the  long  slow  wind 

The  forests  of  fir  from  root  to  crown 
Made  murmuring  music,  and  softly  shook 

A  cloud  of  sifted  silver  down. 
But  round  the  hearth  of  the  room  within, 

Like  the  cherub  throng  of  some  heavenly  choir, 
The  children  clustered,  and  held  their  breath 

While  their  father  hghted  the  yule-log  fire. 

The  little  flames  crackled  and  crisped  and  curled. 
And  sweet  were  the  cries  from  the  happy  crew, 

.As  higher  and  higher  the  blue  smoke  twirled, 
And  then  what  a  blaze  the  great  log  threw, 




What  a  glory  swept  up  the  chimney  shaft. 

And  vanished  into  the  vast  night-blue  ! 
And  the  raftei^  stained  out  of  the  gloom  ' 

With  all  their  festooning  apple-strings, 
With  the  silver  skin  of  their  onion-stalks, 

Their  crook-necked  squash,  and  their  herby 
And  tlie  gleam  glanced  high  on  the  powder- 

And  the  king's-arm  flung  back  a  startled  light, 

Thank  God  for  Christmas  I"  the  father  said, 
.\nd  the  mother,  dropping  her  needles,  turned, 

Thank  God  for  Christmas,  for  roof,  for  fire ! " 
She  answered  him,  and  the  yule-log  burned. 

On  roared  the  billowy  flames ;  the  sparks 
In  shining  showers  up  the  darkness  whirled  ; 

.\nd  the  sap  on  the  great  ends  stood  like  beads, 
And  bubbled  and  simmered  and  hummed  and 


iHt,K     LHjHlbU      IHt      ^  L  Lt-L'Jt.      hlKt.. 

And  the  face  of  the  clock  was  like  the  moon 
Red  in  the  mists  of  the  August  night. 

While  all  the  depth  of  the  dusky  room 

Was  full  of  the  firelight's  blush  and  bloom. 

The  grandame's  hair  like  the  aureole 
Of  any  saint  in  a  picture  showed. 

And  a  wreath  of  roses  about  her  there 
The  frolickintj  children's  faces  slow-ed. 

.\nd  its  thin  note  quavered  and  swelled   and 
And  tuned  and  twittered  and  rippled  along. 

■  The  worm  is  dying,"  the  children  cried. 
"  Oh,  hush!  "  said  the  grandame;  "  you  do  it 

wrong, — " 
And  they  bent  to  listen,  all  eager-eyed, — 
"  Hush,  't  is  the  yule-log  singing  his  song  !  " 



And  the  place  with  a  sudden  warble  rang 
And  this  is  the  song  the  yule-log  sang  : 

"  Far  in  forest  glades  I  grew, 
Fed  on  draughts  of  noontide  dew  ; 
Passed  the  spotted  snake's  low  lair, 
Passed  the  browsing  of  the  bear. 
Fresher  branches  thrust  each  year, 
Passed  the  antler  of  the  deer, 
Till  space  and  sun  and  solitude 
Made  me  king  of  all  the  wood. 

"  Then,  my  lower  branches  laid 
In  a  mighty  depth  of  shade. 
Glad  my  tops  the  sun  descried 
Coursing  up  the  great  earth's  side. 
Knew  the  cloud's  phantasmal  forms, 
Wrestled  with  a  thousand  storms, 
Proudly  bore  victorious  scars. 
And  measured  lances  with  the  stars ! 

"  Twice  a  hundred  years  the  snow 
Her  white  and  glimmering  veils  did  throw 
Round  me  ;  moonbeams  touched  my  spires 
With  a  light  of  frosty  fires  ; 
Knee-deep  in  the  summer  fern 
Twice  a  hundred  years  return, 
And  into  leaf  my  full  plumes  burst 
Green  as  when  they  bourgeoned  first. 

"  Spices  of  the  sun-soaked  wood 
Rose  about  me  where  I  stood ; 
Gums  their  richest  resin  cast 
On  every  wind  that  wandered  past ; 
Blossoms  shed  their  petals  sweet 
In  balmy  drifts  about  my  feet ; 
Berried  fragrance  filled  the  gloom, 
And  the  wild  grape's  ambrosial  bloom. 

"  Here  the  bee  went  blundering  by 
Honey-drunk,  the  butterfly 
Flittered, —  ah,  what  songs  I  heard 
Shrilling  from  the  building  bird ! 
How  all  little  life  did  house 
Securely  in  my  sheltering  boughs 
That  drew  the  green  walls  close  when  there 
The  great  hawk  hung  in  upper  air ! 

"  Still  the  dawn,  the  star-flame  old. 
That    steeped    me    through    and  through,  I 

The  gladness  wrought  in  every  root 
While  the  wood-thrush  blew  his  flute, 
And  music  ordering  all  my  art 
With  sorrow  fit  to  break  the  heart 
When  the  summer  night  was  still 
And  far  off  mourned  the  whippoorwill. 

"  Now,  my  wealth  of  centuried  hours, — 
Memory  of  summer  showers. 
Bloom  and  song  and  leaf  and  wing, — 
Upon  this  yule-tide  hearth  I  fling. 
All  the  life  that  filled  my  year 
I  bring  back  to  the  Giver  here, 
Burning  gladly  in  His  name 
The  hoarded  sunshine  of  my  flame  !  " 

And  the  children  listened,  but  all  was  still ; 

A  core  of  heat  was  the  yule-log's  heart. 
And  into  the  ashes  the  live  coals  dropped 

Like  rubies  that  flash  and  break  apart ; 
And  the  shadows   skimmed  up  the  darkening 

And  the  wind  brought  a  clamor  of  music  near. 

And  the  stars  themselves  bent  down  to  hear. 

While  out  in  the  valley  far  below 
The  peal  of  the  Christmas-bells  rang  clear. 


Bv  XokA  Perkv. 

Chapter    IV. 

AT  II V  BOND  was 
spending  the  first  va- 
cation of  the  autumn 
with  her  "  dear  May," 
as    she    had    been    in 


the    habit    of    caHing 
May    since    the    inti- 
macy that  had  sprung  up  between  them. 

The  girls  who  lived  at  a  distance  from  Hill-- 
side  generally  remained  at  the  seminary  through 
the  shorter  vacations.  Cathy  Bond's  home  was 
two  days'  journey  from  the  school.  The  Macy 
sisters  and  Susy  Morris  also  lived  at  a  distance, 
and  the  four  hitherto  had  spent  their  vacations 
together  at  the  seminary.  Cathy's  invitation 
had  come  about  in  this  way : 

"  I  'm  glad  I  don't  have  to  spend  my  vaca- 
tions at  the  seminary,  as  some  of  the  girls  do," 
May  had  happened  to  say  one  day  to  her  father. 
Mrs.  Bartlett,  who  was  present,  had  looked  up 
and  remarked  quickly  : 

'•  It  must  be  ver)'  forlorn  for  them."  And 
when  May  had  answered  with  emphasis,  "  It 
is  forlorn,"  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  surprised  her  by 
saying  : 

"  Why  don't  you  invite  one  of  them  to  spend 
the  week  wnth  you  ?  " 

•'  But — but,"  Mav  stammered,  "  Papa  does  n't 
like  it." 

"  Papa  does  n't  like  what  ?  "  then  inquired 
Mr.  Bartlett.  waking  up  from  his  absent-mind- 

edness. May  explained,  and  related  how  she 
had  begged  for  this  privilege  of  hospitality  be- 
fore, only  to  be  told  that  it  could  n't  be.  Her 
father  laughed  at  the  recital,  and  then  astonished 
her  by  this  speech  : 

"  Oh,  well,  that  was  last  year  !  I  could  n't 
have  two  giddy  young  things  turned  loose  in 
the  house  then ;  I  should  have  been  totally 
neglected,  if  not  trampled  upon.  Now,  you 
.see,  I  've  somebody  to  be  company  for  me, 
while  you  neglect  me." 

"  Oh,  Papa  !  do  you  mean,  that  now  —  " 

"Yes;  now,  if  you  like,"  nodding  and  smil- 
ing at  her. 

"  And  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Bartlett,  smihng 
also,  "  that  you  will  invite  that  pretty,  bright- 
faced  Cathy  Bond." 

Cathy  Bond !  The  color  in  May's  cheeks 
and  her  embarrassed  look  showed  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett that  something  was  amiss,  and  she  imme- 
diately remarked  : 

"  Of  course  it  makes  no  difference  to  me,  my 
dear,  which  of  your  friends  you  invite,  but  I  re- 
membered this  one  particularly,  and  I  thought 
her  your  favorite,  from  seeing  her  more  with  )ou 
than  the  others." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  yes,  she  is,"  was  May's  rather 
confused  reply. 

And  this  is  the  way  it  came  about  that  Cathy 
spent  the  vacation  with  her  "  dear  May." 

"  After  she  has  talked  as  she  has,  I  should  n't 
think  she  'd  feel  much  like  going  there  to  visit," 
Joanna  exclaimed  indignantly  to  her  sister  Elsie. 



And  at  last  something  of  this  kind  was  said  to 
Cathy  herself,  who  retorted  that  she  was  going 
to  visit  May  at  May's  invitation,  and  not  the  step- 
mother. Perhajjs  it  was  this  last  sharp  word 
that  sharpened  Cathy's  temper,  and  sent  her  on 
her  visit  with  her  prejudices  more  aUve  than  ever. 

"  That  pretty,  bright-faced  girl,"  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett  had  said;  and  Cathy  was  all  that, — pretty 
and  bright-faced;  but  when  she  sat  at  table 
that  first  night  of  her  visit,  Mrs.  Bartlett  felt  a 
vague  sense  of  disappointment  in  her.  She 
had  seen  her  only  a  moment  or  two  at  different 
times  when  she  had  called  upon  May,  and  then 
her  pretriness  and  brightness  had  impressed  Mrs. 
Bartlett  very  favorably.  But  as  she  sat  at  table, 
there  was  a  sort  of  forward  smartness,  a  too  self- 
possessed,  grown-up-ish  air  in  what  she  said  and 
did,  to  suit  fasridious,  well-bred  people. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  thought  Mrs.  Bartlett,  '•  what  a 
pity! — and  such  a  nice-looking  girl,"  and  then, 
"  perhaps  this  is  one  reason  why  May  has  such 
a  forbidding  way  with  her." 

And  while  these  thoughts  were  passing 
through  Mrs.  Bartlett's  mind,  Cathy  with  her 
sharpened  temper  was  pluming  herself  upon 
her  manners,  and  upon  taking  a  stand  against 
the  stepmother.  "  I  shall  be  polite,"  she  had 
said  to  herself;  "but  I  shall  not  be  sweet  and 
cordial,  and  I  shall  let  them  see  that  May  has 
a  real,  independent  friend." 

Mr.  Bardett  who  at  first  had  begun  to  trj- 
and  make  '•  the  litde  girl,"  as  he  called  her,  feel 
comfortable  by  saying  pleasant,  kind  things  to 
her,  soon  gave  up  his  endeavor,  and  as  he  did 
so,  he  looked  at  her  with  one  of  his  queer 
satirical  expressions.  May  caught  the  look  and 
grew  hot,  then  cold.  She  knew  perfectly  what 
it  meant  —  that  he  was  half-displeased,  and  half- 
amused.  What  she  did  not  know,  was  that  he 
was  thinking  just  then,  '■  What  in  the  world  led 
Margaret  to  suggest  that  piece  of  trumisery,  as 
a  visitor  for  May?"  But  as  he  ceased  his  en- 
deavors to  make  "the  litde  giri  comfortable," 
another  idea  flashed  into  his  mind.  It  would  be 
a  saving  grace  to  let  May  see,  as  he  could  make 
her  see,  what  a  second-rate  simpleton  —  for  so 
he  judged  then — this  friend  was.  The  idea 
was  too  tempting  not  to  be  acted  upon,  and 
suddenly  addressing  her  with  a  deference  he 
might  have  shown  to  an  older  person,  he  drew 

the  girl  on  to  display — as  she  supposed — her 
knowledge  and  brilliancy.  Instead,  however, 
of  these  qualities,  Cathy  only  displayed  her 
fooUshness  and  forwardness,  behaving  in  fact  in 
a  very  second-rate  manner  indeed.  "  Oh," 
thought  poor  May,  "  I  would  n't  have  believed 
that  Cathy  could  go  on  like  this.  She  can  be 
so  sensible,     .^nd  Papa  —  Papa  is  too  bad." 

She  looked  appeahngly  at  him,  but  he  did 
not  notice  her.  She  then  tried  to  stop  Cathy 
b)-  asking  her  a  question  about  school  matters. 
But  Cathy  would  not  be  stopped.  Still  she 
rattled  on,  perking  up  her  little  chin,  and  laugh- 
ing, until  May  began  to  feel  very  much  ashamed, 
and  to  wish  that  something  would  happen,  or 

CATHY    ADORNS    HERSELF    FOR    THE     PARTV.       (SEE     PAGE    204.) 

somebody  would  come  to  the  rescue.  And  some- 
bod}-  did  come  to  the  rescue ;  and  this  somebody 
was — the  stepmother. 

Mrs.  Bardett  had  been  observant  of  every- 
thing—  of  her  husband's  "mischief,"  as  she 
termed  it,  of  Cathy's  silliness,  and  of  May's 

"  What  possesses  Edward,"  she  thought,  "  to 
draw  out  that  child's  absurdities  like  this  ?  "  And 
then  she  echoed  May's  thought,  '•  It  is  too  bad 
of  him."  But,  like  May,  she  did  n't  understand 
his  motive.  Yet  if  she  had  understood,  I  think 
she  would  have  done  the  same  thing.  And  this 




is  what  she  did.  An  she  saw  her  husband,  with 
that  look  of  mischief  on  hi.s  face,  about  to  ad- 
dress Miss  Cathy  again,  she  turned  to  him  with  a 
sudden  question  relating  to  an  important  matter 
in  which  he  was  interested.  His  attention  once 
caught,  she  held  it,  though  there  was  an  amused 
sparkle  in  his  eyes  that  showed  he  was  perfectly 
well  aware  of  his  wife's  purpose.  Hut  the  pur- 
pose was  served,  and  May  drew  a  sigh  of  relief 
But  Cathy  was  not  so  well  pleased  to  be  thus 
robbed  of  what  she  considered  such  flattering 

interested  in  a  book,  from  which  he  now  and 
then  read  passages  to  his  wife.  He  took  not 
the  slightest  notice  of  "  the  children,"  as  he 
would  have  called  them.  Disaj)pointed  by  this 
neglect,  Cathy  looked  about  her  for  some 
ment,  and  as  she  saw  the  open  piano  in  the 
further  comer  of  the  large  room,  she  whispered 
to  May  that  they  might  try  one  of  their  duets. 
"  Oh,  no,  no,  not  now  ;  we  '11  try  to-morrow," 
poor  May  whispered  back.  But  Cathy  could 
not  or  would  not  understand,  and  saying  care- 


.^'  w. 




'  & 

"CATHS*     RATTLED    ON     INTIL    MAY     BEGAN     TO     FEEL    ASHAMED.' 

attention,  and  responded  rather  absently  to 
May's  low-voiced  attempts  to  talk  with  her; 
and,  after  they  had  left  the  table,  when  Ma\- 
tried  to  draw  her  into  her  own  special  sanctum 
— a  charming  room  full  of  books  and  pictures 
and  games — Cathy  said  decidedly  : 

"  Oh,  let  's  go  into  the  parlor:  I  think  it  "s  so 
pleasant  where  there  's  an  open  fire." 

But  if  she  fancied  she  was  again  to  receive 
the  attention  that  had  so  flattered  her,  she  was 
mistaken.      Mr.    Bartlett    became    absorbingly 

lessly,  "  Well,  let  me  look  at  the  music,"  led  the 
way  to  the  instrument.  Once  there,  she  did  not 
content  herself  with  looking;  she  must  just  try 
whether  she  could  remember  this  or  that,  she  had 
taken  for  a  lesson.  "  This  or  that  "  turned  out 
to  be  a  few  bars  of  various  compositions,  not  of 
the  highest  order,  and  played  without  particular 
skill.  May  stole  a  glance  down  the  room  at  her 
father.  Mr.  Bartlett  was  fond  of  music,  and  had 
some  knowledge  of  it,  and  a  cultivated  taste.  May 
saw  him  twist  his  mouth  into  a  comical  smile. 



20  I 

and  shake  his  head  ruefully  as  he  looked  at 

"  Come,  let  us  play  '  Halma ' ;  I  have  a  new 
board,"  she  whispered  to  Cathy. 

But  Cathy  just  then  struck  into  a  gay  waltz, 
and  banged  away  with  all  her  might.  As  she 
played  the  last  bars,  Mrs.  Bartlett  approached. 

"  That  was  one  of  the  Strauss  waltzes,  was  n't 
it  ?  "  she  asked  Cathy  politely ;  and  then  she 
began  to  speak  of  the  great  Peace  Jubilee  in 
Boston,  when  Johann  Strauss  had  come  all  the 
way  from  Austria  to  play,  and  to  lead  the  great 
orchestra  in  the  colosseum  that  was  erected  for 
the  jubilee. 

"  I  was  about  your  age  then,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  Cathy,  "  and  I  never  had  had  such  a 
perfectly  lovely  time  as  I  had  then."  As  she 
went  on  describing  that  fairy-like  structure, 
with  its  glass  roof,  covering  so  many  acres, 
and  the  bands  from  England  and  Germany  and 
France  and  Austria  and  Ireland,  that  came  over 
to  America  to  play  their  own  music  in  celebra- 
tion of  the  peace  of  the  world.  May  leaned  for- 
ward, spell-bound  by  the  description  and  all 
it  brought  before  her,  and  even  Cathy  forgot 
herself  for  the  time.  After  this,  Mr.  Bartlett 
called  out : 

"  Margaret,  play  something  for  us ; "  and 
Margaret  played  some  beautiful  selections  from 
Schumann  and  Beethoven,  and  then,  at  the 
last,  she  sang  a  good-night  song  by  Robert 
Franz ;  and  with  the  concluding  words,  "  Good- 
night, good-night,"  she  rose,  smiling,  from  her 
seat,  and  as  at  that  instant  the  little  clock  on 
the  mantel  struck  half-past  nine.  May  knew 
that  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed,  and  rose  also, 
expecting  Cathy  to  follow  her  example;  but 
Cathy  hung  back,  and  began  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  know  any  waltzes  that  you  could 
play  for  us  to  dance,  Mrs.  Bartlett  ? "  she 
asked.  Before  Mrs.  Bartlett  could  reply,  Mr. 
Bartlett  had  come  forward,  and  was  saying, 
"  Good-night,  children,"  and  in  the  next  mo- 
ment he  was  asking  his  wife  to  play  a  Hun- 
garian march  for  him. 

May  was  only  too  glad  to  get  away.  Once 
upstairs  by  themselves,  Cathy  would  be  herself 
again,  she  reasoned.  But  there  were  several 
things  rankling  in  Cathy's  mind,  not  the  least 
of  which  was  that  "  Good-night,  children"  and 
Vol.  XVII.— 23. 

when  May,  with  a  little  skip  of  relief,  entered 
the  chamber,  and  said  cheerfully : 

"  I  don't  feel  a  bit  sleepy ;  do  you,  Cathy  ?  " 
Cathy  answered  sharply : 

"  I  ?  No ;  I  could  have  waltzed  for  half 
an  hour." 

The  color  flew  to  May's  face. 

"  But,  Cathy,  it  is  half-past  nine,  half  an  hour 
later  than  I  usually  go  to  bed,  and  you  told  me 
that  nine  was  the  seminary  hour." 

"  Well,  this  is  n't  the  seminary.  I  did  n't 
expect  to  visit  a  school,"  sarcastically. 

May  had  to  remember  that  Cathy  was  her 
guest,  and  that  she  must  be  poHte  to  her,  so 
she  said : 

"I  'm  so  sorry,  Cathy.  But — she — will  play 
for  us  to  dance  to-morrow,  I  dare  say." 

" '  She ' —  oh,  that 's  what  you  call  her  ?  I ' ve 
wondered  what  it  was !  What  do  you  call  her 
when  you  speak  to  her  ?  " 

"I  —  I — don't  say  anything.  I  wait  until 
she  is  looking  at  me.     I — " 

Cathy  went  off  into  a  giggle. 

"  Oh,  it  's  too  funny.  I  must  tell  the  girls 
when  I  get  back  that  you  only  speak  of  her  as 
'  she,'  and  wait  until  she  looks  at  you  before — " 

"  Oh,  don't,  Cathy." 

"  Don't  what  ?  " 

"  Don't  make  fun — like  that — to  the  girls." 

"  Well,  I  should  just  like  to  know  what  has 
come  over  you,  May  Bartlett;  but  I  know  well 
enough.  She  has  got  the  upper  hand  of  you 
in  your  own  home,  that  's  clear." 

The  color  in  May's  face  deepened. 

"  How  can  you  talk  so  foolishly,  Cathy  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  talking  foolishly.  I  saw  it  at  the 
very  first,  when  we  were  at  the  tea-table.  \\'hat 
did  she  do  when  your  father  was  so  nice  and 
pleasant  to  me  but  stop  him  and  make  him  talk 
to  her !  And  then  she  would  n't  let  him  come 
near  us  in  the  parlor,  but  came  herself  after 
a  while,  and  told  us  stories  about  that  old  ju- 
bilee. I  've  heard  my  mother  tell  about  it  a 
hundred  times." 

"  Oh,  Cathy  !  you  don't  know  —  " 

May  stopped.  She  could  n't  tell  Cathy  that 
she  had  been  saved  twice :  once  from  making 
herself  ridiculous,  and  again  from  being  an 
annoyance,  by — yes — by  the  stepmother.  And 
it  was  the  stepmother  who  had  encouraged  her 




visit,  who  had  spoken  of  her  as  pretty  and 
bright-faced,  when  Cathy  had  been  so  bitter 
against  her,  and,  worst  of  all,  at  the  very  time 
when  she  had  been  really  doing  her  a  kind- 
ness;— but  what  was  it  Cathy  was  saying? 

"  I  do  know  one  thing.  May,  that  you  are 
another  girl  here  at  home  from  what  you  are  at 
school.  You  don't  seem  to  remember  what 
you  've  told  me  about  the  garden-party,  and 
the  wagon,  and  everything.  You  to  tell  me  not 
to  talk  to  the  girls !  " 

May  began  to  feel  \exy  angry,  and  luckily  verj- 
small  too ;  the  latter  feeling  prevented  the  out- 
burst of  the  former.  How  could  she  admonish 
Cathy  ?  There  was  a  silence  for  a  few  minutes, 
while  Cathy,  with  an  injured  look,  made  her 
preparations  for  bed.  By  and  by  May  said, 
with  an  effort : 

"  She  wanted  you  to  come." 

"  She  wanted  me ; "  a  little  rasping  laugh, 
and  then,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

May  explained  by  relating  the  conversation 
where  Mrs.  Bartlett  had  spoken  of  her  so 
pleasantly.  The  angry  lines  relaxed  a  little 
in  Cathy's  face,  and  presently  she  said,  easily: 

"  Well,  it  was  never  my  affair,  you  know.  / 
never  knew  anything  about  her,  except  what  you 
told  me,  and  I  'm  sure  I  hope  she  will  turn  out 
nice,  for  your  sake." 

May  struggled  with  her  temper.  She  felt  put 
in  the  wrong  on  every  side.  But  even  if  she 
yielded  to  the  wild  impulse  within  her,  what 
could  she  say  ?  If  Cathy  had  encouraged  her 
to  talk  against  her  stepmother,  she  had  likewise 
encouraged  Cathy ! 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said  then;  and 
nothing  to  be  done,  except  to  listen  to  Cathy 
with  what  patience  she  might ;  but  Cathy  her- 
self presently  turned  from  the  subject  to  some- 
thing else,  and  a  little  later,  all  unkind  thoughts 
were  lost,  for  the  time,  in  slumber. 

Ch.apter   V. 

"  Play  for  you  to  dance  ?  Certainly  I  will. 
But,  May,  how  would  you  Uke  to  invite  the 
other  girls  who  are  spending  their  vacation  at 
the  seminary  to  join  a  little  partj'  here  on 
Saturday  evening  ?  " 

"  But  there  are  not  enough  to  make  a  party." 

Mrs.  Bartlett  smiled. 

"But  I  said  'join  a  party.'  I  thought  I 
would  invite  some  of  my  friends  in  Boston  with 
their  young  people,  if  you  would  like  it,  and  then 
we  might  have  enough  for  a  dancing-party. 
Would  you  like  it  ?  " 

May  looked  up.  There  was  something  in 
the  wistful  tone  of  this  "  would  you  like  it  ? ' 
that  made  her  ashamed  of  her  ungracious  hesi- 
tation; yet  Cathy's  sneering  accusation  of  the 
night  before,  "you  are  another  girl  here  at 
home  from  what  you  are  at  school,"  had  been 
rankling  in  her  mind.  She  must  prove  herself; 
she  must  show  Cathy  that  she  was  the  same, 
and  so  instead  of  responding  at  once  as  she  felt, 
with  delight  at  the  project,  she  said  after  that 
hesitation,  in  a  cold  tone : 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  it  verj'  well."  And  then 
Cathy,  who  was  standing  by,  sprang  forward 
and  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  I  think  it  would  be  just 
lovely,  and  I  'm  sure  /  shall  like  it  above  all 
things ! " 

Again  May  felt  herself  put  in  the  wrong  and 
misunderstood,  and  again  she  had  to  struggle 
with  her  temper.  This  conversation  had  taken 
place  on  the  .morning  after  Cathy's  arrival, 
which  had  been  upon  Friday,  the  beginning 
of  the  vacation.  The  party  proposed  was  for 
the  next  Saturday. 

"The  only  thing  that  troubles  me  is  that  I 
have  n't  a  Hght  dress  to  wear —  I  've  only  my 
garnet  cashmere  here  at  Hillside,"  Cathy  re- 
marked, when  she  and  May  were  alone  to- 

"  Oh,  but  we  are  so  near  of  a  size  you  can 
wear  one  of  mine;  I  have  two  white  wool 
dresses,"  May  answered  readily. 

When  the  dresses  were  produced  and  tried 
on,  Cathy  found  that  the  latest-made  dress  suited 
her  best. 

"  But,  Cathy,  don't  you  think  it  is  too  long  ? 
It  comes  almost  to  the  floor  upon  you.  I  am 
taller,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  no,  't  is  n't  a  bit  too  long.  I  like  it," 
Cathy  replied  hastily.  And  so  the  matter  was 
dismissed,  Cathy  after  removing  the  dress 
hanging  it  up  in  the  closet  with  a  pleased  air. 
The  week  sped  by  very  quickly,  and  for  the 
most  part  smoothly.     Cathy  evidently  enjoyed 




herself,  though  she  found  that  Mr.  Bartlett  was 
no  longer  disposed  to  treat  her  as  a  grown-up 
young  lady;  indeed,  that  he  took  but  scant 
notice  of  her.  The  long  drives,  however,  in 
the  httle  village-wagon  in  the  bright  early  days 
of  winter  that  were  hke  autumn,  the  trips  to  Bos- 
ton, to  a  matinee  performance  of  "  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy,"  and  to  visit  one  or  two  picture 
galleries,  filled  the  short  days  to  overflowing. 
On  several  occasions  during  this  time,  Cathy 
had  said  things  that  had  made  May  exceedingly 
uncomfortable.  Once,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
preparations  for  the  little  party,  she  suddenly 
asked,  "  Don't  you  help,  when  anything  of  this 
kind  is  going  on  ?  " 

"Help  —  how?"  May  inquired,  in  a  be- 
wildered tone. 

"  Why,  with  the  notes  of  invitation  for  one 
thing.     I  always  do  that  part  at  home." 

"  No,  I  never  thought  of  it.  When  Aunt 
Mary  lived  with  us  I  was  too  young,  and  she 
left  us  only  two  years  ago." 

"  Well,  you  do  have  an  easy  rime.  May,  I 
must  say,"  Cathy  had  responded  to  this.  May 
did  not  care  to  ask  Cathy  for  any  more  of  her 
opinions  on  the  subject ;  a  sense  of  hurt  pride 
was  beginning  to  affect  her — to  make  her  draw 
back  within  herself,  and  to  feel  that  Cathy  was 
going  too  far.  Once  she  would  have  told  Cathy 
this,  would  have  told  anybody  who  had  spoken 
to  her  in  such  a  fashion ;  but  now,  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  herself  had  opened  the  way 
for  Cathy  to  be  so  free  with  her  silenced  her. 

Yet  in  spite  of  some  annoyances  like  this,  the 
week  ran  rapidly  toward  its  end,  and  Saturday 
morning  came.  Just  after  luncheon,  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett said  to  the  girls  : 

"  Had  n't  you  two  girls  better  try  on  your 
dresses  now,  and  see  if  everything  is  all  right  ? 
They  may  need  new  ruching  in  the  neck,  or 
some  little  changes.  I  always  try  on  a  dress 
after  it  has  n't  been  worn  for  a  while,  before  the 
last  minute,  as  we  used  to  say  at  home." 

May  started  up  readily;  Cathy  was  not  so 

"  But  I  've  tried  the  one  I  'm  to  wear,  Mrs. 
Bartlett,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know — all  by  yourselves;  but  don't 
you  want  to  let  me  see  if  everything  is  right  ?  If 
it  is  n't,  I  can  let  Julie  attend  to  it  at  once." 

May  was  already  upstairs,  and  Cathy  slowly 
followed  her. 

As  Mrs.  Bartlett  entered  the  chamber,  she 
saw  her  stepdaughter  standing  arrayed  in  a  very 
pretty  white  gown,  much  too  short  in  the  skirt. 

"  There  now,  my  dear,  here  is  something  to 
be  done.  You  have  grown  so  tall,  your  skirt 
must  be  lengthened."  She  busied  herself  for 
several  moments  in  taking  measurements,  and 
then  turned  to  Cathy. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  you  both  have  made  a  mis- 
take. This  is  as  much  too  long  for  you  as  the 
one  May  has  on  is  too  short  for  her ;  "  and  she 
went  forward,  smilingly,  ready  to  help  remedy 
this  "  mistake."     But  Cathy  stepped  back. 

"  No,  there  is  no  mistake,  Mrs.  Bartlett.  I  — 
my  party-dress  at  home  is  as  long  as  this.  I 
hke  it." 

"But — with  your  hair  down  in  a  braid,  it 
hardly  seems  to  suit  you.  The  skirt  is  as  long  as 
mine,  I  think,"  Mrs.  Bartlett  remarked  quietly. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  shall  put  my  hair  up  to-night. 
I  often  do  at  home,"  quickly  responded  Cathy. 
"  Besides,  the  other  dress  would  be  short  for 
me,  too.     I  'm  nearly  as  tall  as  May." 

As  she  spoke,  Cathy  walked  across  the  room 
to  the  mirror,  and  as  she  did  so  the  difference 
in  height  allowed  May  to  look  easily  over  her 
head.  Mrs.  Bardett  caught  May's  eye  at  that 
moment,  and  laughed !  This  was  very  undig- 
nified, no  doubt,  but  Mrs.  Bartlett  was  only  an 
older  girl  herself,  and  the  whole  situation  had 
suddenly  become  irresistibly  ludicrous  to  her. 
May,  too,  in  that  moment,  felt  her  indignation 
at  Cathy  change  to  merriment,  and,  as  Cathy 
wheeled  about  with  a  look  of  questioning,  she 
surprised  an  exchange  of  glances  that  both 
mortified  and  offended  her. 

But,  with  the  easy  readiness  of  her  greater 
experience,   Mrs.  Bartlett  instantly  said : 

"  It  was  so  funny,  my  dear,  to  see  May  in 
that  ridiculously  short  skirt  overtopping  you 
that  I  had  to  laugh ; "  and  then  turning  briskly 
to  May,  she  treated  the  matter  as  of  no  conse- 
quence by  saying : 

"  Now,  May,  if  you  will  come  with  me  to  the 
sewing-room,  Julie  will  attend  to  your  skirt." 

The  two  girls  saw  little  of  each  other  after 
this,  until  it  was  time  to  dress  for  the  evening. 
It  was  an  early  party,  on  account  of  the  young 




jjeople,  and  May  had  been  occupied  with  Julie 
most  of  the  afternoon. 

When,  therefore,  the  two  met  later  in  the 
day,  something  of  Cathy's  irritation  had  been 
overlaid  by  other  things ;  but  it  had  only  been 
overlaid,  and  May  knew,  by  the  rather  artificial 
manner  in  which  Cathy  tried  to  be  cordial  and 
natural,  that  she  had  not  forgotten.  Specially 
was  this  noticeable  when  May  donned  the  gown 
that  Julie  had  altered. 

"  Oh,  does  n't  it  look  nice,  though ! "  cried 
Cathy,  in  a  shghdy  strained  and  nervous  tone. 

"  It  does  very  well,"  was  all  that  May  could 
reply;  for  in  fact  the  gown  did  not  look  par- 
ticularly nice,  spite  of  Julie's  efforts.  The 
lengthening  process  showed  in  the  white  sur- 
face, and  even  the  broad  sash  did  not  conceal 
that  the  waist  also  had  been  a  little  outgrown. 
Julie,  who  had  been  sent  in  by  Mrs.  Bartlett 
to  assist  the  girls  at  their  toilets,  turned  to 
Cathy  at  last,  saying,  in  her  French-English : 

"  Now,  if  Mees  Cathy  's  ready  for  me,  I 
make  her  ready." 

Cathy  still  waited.  Then,  as  if  struck  by  a 
sudden  thought,  she  cried: 

"  Oh,  May,  will  you  see  if  I  can  have  some 
of  that  red  kalmia  from  the  green-house  instead 
of  the  daisies?  " 

May  took  the  hint  —  Cathy  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  her.  It  was  on  the  stroke  of  the  hour 
for  which  the  guests  had  been  bidden  when  they 
next  met. 

"  What  can  your  friend  be  about  ?  "  Mrs. 
Bartlett  asked  with  some  concern  as  the  min- 
utes sped  by.  May  knew  no  more  than  her 
stepmother.  She  only  knew  that  the  bunch 
of  kalmia  had  been  sent  up  to  Cathy  half  an 
hour   ago. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  run  up  and  see  if 
she  is  waiting  for  )0U  to  come  for  her,"  Mrs. 
Bartlett  then  suggested.  But  just  as  May 
started,  the  clock  struck  eight,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  door-bell  rang.  At  that  very  moment 
a  white  vision  appeared  on  the  parlor  threshold. 
It  was  a  slender  young  lady  in  a  white  dress, 
■with  her  dark  hair  piled  in  a  crown-like  coil 
upon  the  top  of  her  head.  At  the  neck,  a 
cluster  of  scarlet  flowers  began,  and,  widening 
out  in  a  bright  mass  of  color,  drooped  in  long 
sprays  to  the  waist-line.     Both   May  and  her 

stepmother  looked  at  this  vision  at  first  with 
surprise.  Was  it  a  guest  whose  arrival  they 
had  not  heard?  The  white  vision  stepped 
forward;  the  red  mouth  above  the  red  flowers 

"  Why,  Cathy  I  "  cried  May.  Yes,  it  was 
Cathy.  In  her  long,  white  dress,  with  her 
dusky  hair  gathered  up,  and  all  those  scarlet 
kalmias,  she  looked  like  a  young  lady,  and  a 
very  pretty  one,  it  must  be  confessed.  Cathy 
was  (juite  aware  of  the  effect  that  she  produced. 
She  saw  surprised  admiration  in  May's  glance. 
It  was  not  so  easy  to  read  Mrs.  Bartlett's  face, 
but  in  the  smile  of  recognition  Miss  Cathy  saw 
no  sign  of  disapproval. 

The  ring  at  the  door-bell  was  that  of  the  little 
party  from  the  seminary.  When  they  came 
into  the  parlor,  Joanna,  as  the  eldest  of  the 
three,  advanced  first,  Elsie  and  Susy  shyly  fol- 
lowing. .'Ml  three  were  dressed  somewhat  alike, 
in  different  shades  of  dark-blue  cashmere.  If, 
as  they  observed  the  white-robed  figures  before 
them,  they  might  have  felt  a  little  shade  of 
girlish  regret  and  mortification  that  they  too 
were  not  so  whitely  clothed,  the  warm  recep- 
tion that  they  received  from  Mrs.  Bartlett  and 
May  went  far  to  reassure  them.  None  of  the 
party  at  first  recognized  Cathy.  When  they 
did,  Susy  forgot  her  shyness  for  the  moment  in 
her  astonishment,  and  cried  out  in  that  little  soft 
odd  voice  of  hers : 

"  Oh,  it 's  Cathy  in  a  fancy  costume  —  how 
funny ! " 

The  rest  of  the  girls  laughed  —  that  is,  all 
but  Cathy;  and  Susy,  noting  the  vexed  expres- 
sion of  her  face,  added : 

"  I  did  n't  mean  by  'funny'  that  it  was  n't 
nice,  too." 

The  girls  laughed  again,  Cathy  joining  this 
time.     As  for  Mrs.  Bartlett,  she  thought : 

"  What  a  dear,  quaint  littie  darling  it  is.  If 
only  she  had  been  May's  visitor!  " 

But  as  the  other  guests  began  to  arrive,  there 
was  little  opportunit)'  to  indulge  in  regrets  of 
any  kind.  The  guests  were  some  of  them 
strangers  to  May  even:  they  were  old  friends 
and  acquaintances  of  Mrs.  Bartlett's,  with  their 
young  sisters,  or  daughters,  and  their  brothers. 

"  Oh,  is  n't  it  nice  to  have  real  partners !  " 
exclaimed  Cathy,  as  she  saw  the  latter  enter. 



Joanna,  to  whom  she  spoke,  laughed,  and 
said  she  thought  s/if  was  real  enough  whenever 
she  had  been  Cathy's  partner. 

"Oh,  but  you  know  what  I  mean — gentle- 
men partners,"  pettishly  responded  Cathy;  and 
Joanna  had  responded  to  this  : 

"/call  them  boys." 

Two  violins,  a  harp,  and  a  comet,  in  a  small 
room  leading  out  of  the  parlors,  made  music  for 
the  dancers.  All  the  girls  entered  into  the 
dancing  with  great  zest,  Cathy  more  than  the 
rest,  ^\^len  May  had  first  recognized  her,  in 
the  long  dress  and  piled-up  hair,  she  had  felt 
such  a  thrill  of  admiration  that  all  her  old  be- 
lief and  regard,  which  had  been  sorely  shaken 
within  the  last  few  days,  revived.  In  fact, 
Cathy  looked  so  much  like  a  splendid  grown- 
up young  lady  then,  that  to  criticise  her  seemed 
an  impertinence ;  and  introducing  this  splendid 
young  lady  to  one  and  another,  May  had  a  feel- 
ing of  pride  in  her,  and  when  she  saw  with  what 
a  self-possessed  air  these  introductions  were  re- 
ceived, she  was  sure  that  there  was  not  one  of 
those  Boston  girls  who  had  nicer  manners. 

The  dancing  was  in  the  long  wide  hall,  as 
well  as  in  the  parlors.  Cathy  seemed  to  prefer 
the  hall,  and  May  found  herself  in  the  parlor, 
separated  from  her  as  the  evening  went  on; 
and  now  and  then  she  would  wonder  whether 
Cathy  was  having  a  good  time.  May  herself  was 
having  a  delightful  rime.  She  had  forgotten  all 
about  her  dress  being  short  in  the  waist,  and 
showing  where  it  had  been  let  down ;  she  had 
forgotten  everything  that  was  disagreeable,  in- 
deed, when  she  suddenly  became  conscious  that 
the  music  was  greatly  accelerated  in  speed,  and 
that  over  and  above  the  music  there  seemed 
to  be  a  good  deal  of  noise  —  the  sound  of 
voices   and   laughter. 

She  was  vaguely  wondering  what  it  meant, 
when  she  heard  one  of  the  boy  strangers  from 
town  say  to  another,  with  a  laugh : 

"  They  're  rushing  things  out  there  in  the 
hall,  are  n't  they  ?  "     And  the  other  answered : 

"  It  's  that  seminary  girl.  She  's  set  them  all 
a-going.  I  saw  her  speak  to  the  musicians 
just  now." 

That  seminary  girl !  AVho,  luho  could  they 
mean  ?  Just  then  the  final  quadrille  change 
was  called,  and  the  moment  slie  was  free  May 


dashed  out  into  the  hall.  But  the  music,  which 
had  ceased  for  a  second,  had  struck  up  again 
into  a  wild  jig  tune,  and  there  was  Cathy,  her 
hair  flying,  her  laugh  sounding,  leading  off  down 
the  polished  floor,  almost  on  a  run,  to  the  jig 
tune,  with  one  of  the  older  boys  for  her  partner. 

"  Margaret,  if  you  don't  stop  that  little  hoy- 
den, I  will !  "  May  here  overheard  her  father 
say.  The  next  instant  she  saw  her  stepmother 
walk  rapidly  past,  and  in  another  instant  the 
music  came  to  an  abrupt  close. 

Cathy,  in  her  mad  speed,  at  that  instant  met 
Mrs.  Bartlett  face  to  face  as  she  was  leaving 
the  music-room. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bartlett,"  she  broke  forth,  "  how 
could  you  stop  our  fun  ?  " 

"Hush,  my  dear,"  began  Mrs.  Bartlett;  but 
Cathy,  wild  mth  her  fun,  as  she  called  it,  inter- 
rupted with  a  pleading  and  protesting — plead- 
ing for  "just  one  more  swing,"  and  protesting 
generally  in  a  foolish,  flippant  litde  manner,  full 
of  vanity  and  silliness,  wth  a  notion  that  she 
was  behaving  in  a  very  young  ladyish  style,  and 
attracting  the  admiration  of  everybody  about 
her ;  when  she  was  attracting,  instead,  that  very 
unenviable  attention  which  expresses  itself  in 
astonished  stares  and  questions  of:  "  Who  is  that 
little  hoyden  ?  "  If  she  had  turned,  as  she  stood 
there  protesting,  she  would  have  seen  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house  approaching  with  an  ominous 
frown  upon  his  face ;  but  she  did  not  turn,  and 
she  only  saw  the  mistress  of  the  house  shake  her 
head  at  some  one,  and  then  heard  her  say : 

"  Come,  Cathy,  it  is  nearly  supper  time,  and 
I  want  you  to  go  upstairs  and  let  Julie  put 
your  hair  and  dress  in  order."  As  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett said  this,  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Cathy 
with  a  perfectly  kind,  but  a  compelling  gaze,  and 
the  girl  knew  that  she  must  obey ;  but  there 
was  in  her  heart  a  blind,  unreasoning  fury  as 
she  did  so. 

May,  full  of  shame  and  disappointment, 
shrank  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  portiere 
near  her  father,  but  unseen  by  him.  It  was 
then  she  heard  her  stepmother  say: 

"  No,  Edward,  I  could  n't  let  you  speak  to 
her.  You  must  remember  she  is  only  a  child 
— a  willful,  spoiled  child,  and  her  head  is  a 
little  turned  by  her  high  spirits,  and  her  pret- 
tiness,  and  the  effect  she  seemed  to  produce." 



"  Margaret,  you  would  find  excuses  for  any- 

"  I  would  certainly  find  excuses  for  such  a 
mere  child  as  this." 

They  moved  away  together,  but  May  still  re- 
mained behind  the  portiere,  thinking,  thinking, 
thinking.  This  was  the  third  time  her  step- 
mother had  shielded  Cathy — Cathy,  who  from 
the  start  had  been  against  her,  had  said  hard 
things,  had  had  hard  thoughts  of  her,  had  done 
her  best  to  injure  her.  But  who  had  encouraged 
Cathy  ?    Again  this  question  confronted  May. 

"  May,  is  it  you,  my  dear  ?  " 

Somebody  was  pushing  the  portiere  aside. 
It  was  her  stepmother. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you.  Will  you  run  up,  my  dear, 
and  see  if  Cathy  is  ready  to  come  down.  I 
can't  think  what  keeps  her  so  long.  It  could  n't 
have  taken  Julie  more  than  five  minutes  to  put 
her  dress  in  order." 

As  May  sped  on  her  errand  her  thoughts  sped 
with  her,  tormenting  her  with  fears  and  regrets. 
At  the  door  of  her  room  she  paused  a  moment, 
with  tiie  fears  increasing,  for  there  was  a  confu- 
sion of  voices,  Cathy's  rising  above  the  others. 

"No;  I  shall  /loi  go  down  again!  —  to  be 
sent  away  like  a  baby !  —  do  you  think  — !  " 

"  Oh,  Cathy  !  Cathy  !  you  mi/sf  come  down ; 
I  've  been  sent  for  you,"  cried  May,  as  she 
entered  the  room. 

"  I  shall  rw//" 

"  How  silly  you  are,  Cathy.  Of  course  you  '11 
go  down." 

It  was  Joanna  who  spoke.  As  May  crossed 
the  threshold  she  saw  that  Joanna  and  Susy 
were  both  standing  by  the  dressing-table. 

"  There  's  no  '  of  course '  about  it,"  Cathy  re- 
torted sharply,  "  and  you  may  call  me  silly  if 
you  like,  Joanna  Macy,  but  I  should  just  like 
to  ask  you  how  you  would  feel  to  be  treated 
like  a  baby  —  sent  off  to  have  your  hair  brushed 
and  your  face  washed,  right  in  the  middle  of  a 
dance  ?  " 

"  Hair  brushed  and  face  washed  !  How  you 
do  go  on,  Cathy !  But  it  was  n't  in  the  middle 
of  a  dance.  The  cotillon  had  ended,  and  it 
was  you  who  started  that  other  thing  —  I  saw 
you,  and  I  should  have  thought  Mrs.  Bartlett 

would  have  been  disgusted.  It  was  horrid  of 
you  —  a  school-girl  like  you,  to  be  so  forward. 
I  was  so  ashamed  I  did  n't  know  what  to  do." 

"A  school-girl  like  me  !  I  'm  fifteen,  Joanna 

"  What  's  fifteen  ?  We  are  all  nothing  but  a 
pack  of  school-girls,  any  way." 

"  And  to  be  stopjjed  like  that,  and  sent  off, 
and  your  partner  —  a  young  gentleman,  stand- 
ing with  you ! " 

" Oh,  that  'sit!  A  young  gentleman !  That 
Everett  boy!"  and  Joanna  laughed  scornfully. 

Cathy's  rage  did  n't  cool  at  Joanna's  speech, 
and  she  was  about  to  retort  again,  when  May 
broke  in  with,  her  entreaty  : 

"  Oh,  t/a  come,  Catliy !  I  have  been  sent 
for  you." 

"  Yes,  s/ie^  sent  you,  I  suppose,"  with  a  sneer- 
ing emphasis  upon  the  pronoun. 

"  Cathy,  you  are  very  —  very  unjust.  If  you 
did  but  know  it,  she  has  been  very  kind  to  you," 
cried  May. 

"  She  !  She  !  She  !  "  Cathy  mockingly  re- 
peated. "  That  is  what  May  calls  this  step- 
mother of  whom  all  at  once  she  is  so  fond ! "  and 
then,  in  a  few  sharp,  stinging  words,  Cathy  let 
loose  the  irritation  that  had  been  accumulating 
from  her  hurt  vanity  for  the  last  few  days.  In 
these  words  were  reproach  and  accusation,  which 
had  enough  truth  in  them  to  make  it  very  diffi- 
cult for  May  to  control  herself;  but  with  the 
reproach  and  accusation  against  herself  were 
mixed  at  last  such  comment  and  criticism  of 
her  stepmother  as  not  only  May,  but  the  two 
other  girls,  felt  to  be  both  unfair  and  imper- 

"  How  can  you,  Cathy  ?  "  burst  out  Joanna 
indignantly.  "  Mrs.  Bartlett  has  been  lovely 
to  you  —  to  us  all,  I  'm  sure.  If  you  had  to 
sputter  out  that  silly  prejudice  against  step- 
mothers at  first,  you  might  stop  now.  I  should 
think  you  'd  harmed  May  about  enough." 

"/harmed  May  !  May  hated  her  stepmother 
from  the  first.  It  was  May  who  told  me  — " 
Her  voice  suddenly  ceased  as  she  caught  the 
expression  of  horror  in  May's  eyes, —  May,  who 
was  looking  beyond  her  at  somebody,  or  some- 
thing,— who — what  could  it  be  ? 

To  be  contintied.) 


(A  Legend  of  Ns'lO  Mexico  in  the  Fifteenth   Century.) 

By  Charles  F.  Lummis. 











\         N           '% 


EAR  ye,  people  of  Acoma, 
for  I,  the  Governor,  speak. 
To-morrow,  go  ye  down  to 
the  fields  to  plow;  already 
it  is  the  month  of  rain,  and 
there  is  Httle  in  the  store- 
rooms. Let  all  go  forth, 
that  we  build  shelters  of  cedar  and  stay  in  the 
fields.  The  women,  also,  to  cook  for  us.  Take 
ye  each  one  his  burros,  and  food  for  a  month. 
And  pray  that  the  Sun-Father,  Pa-yat-yama,  give 
us  much  com  this  year." 

As  white-headed  Kai-a-tan-ish  passed  delib- 
erately down  the  front  of  the  houses,  the  soft 
Queres  words  rolling  sonorously  from  his  deep 
throat,  the  people  stopped  their  work  to  listen 
to  him.  The  ruddy  sun  was  just  resting  over 
the  cliffs  of  the  Black  Mesa,  which  walled  the 
pretty  valley  on  the  west,  and  the  shadows  of 
the  houses  were  creeping  far  out  along  the 
rocky  floor  of  the  town. 

Such  quaint  houses  as  they  were !  BuUt  of 
gray  adobe,  terraced  so  that  the  three  successive 
stories  receded  like  a  giganric  flight  of  steps, 
they  stood  in  three  parallel  rows,  each  a  con- 
tinuous block  a  thousand  feet  long,  divided  by 
interior  walls  into  wee  but  comfortable  tene- 
ments. There  were  no  doors  nor  windows  in 
the  lower  story,  but  tall  ladders  reached  to  its 
roof,  which  formed  a  sort  of  broad  piazza  before 
the  second-story  door.  Women  were  washing 
their  hair  with  the  soapy  root  of  the  palmilla  on 
the  yard-like  roofs,  or  coming  home  from  the 
great  stone  reservoir  with  gaily  decorated  iina- 
jas*  of  rain-water  perched  confidently  upon  their 
heads.  Children  ran  races  along  the  smooth 
rock  which  served  for  a  street,  or  cared  for  their 
mothers'  babies,  slung  upon  their  patient  young 
backs.  The  men  were  very  busy,  tying  up 
bundles  in  buckskin,  putting  new  handles  on 
their  stone  axes  and  hoes,  or  fitting  to  damaged 

arrows  new  heads  shaped  from  pieces  of  quartz 
or  volcanic  glass. 

As  the  governor  kept  his  measured  way  down 
the  street,  repeating  his  proclamation  at  inter- 
vals, a  tall,  powerfully-made  Indian  stepped  from 
one  of  the  houses,  descended  the  ladder  to  the 
ground,  and  walked  out  toward  the  sunset  until 
he  could  go  no  farther.  He  stood  on  the  edge 
of  a  dizzy  cliff".  From  its  beetling  top  the  old 
cedars  in  the  plain  below  looked  like  dark-green 
moss.  For  in  those  days  the  Queres  city  of 
Acoma  stood  on  the  Rock  of  Katzimo  —  a  great 
round,  stone  table  two  miles  in  circumference, 
and  with  perpendicular  walls  a  thousand  feet 
high.  The  level  valley,  five  miles  wide,  was 
hemmed  in  by  cliffs,  forming  a  gigantic  box; 
and  in  its  very  center  rose  the  red  Rock  of 

Sho-ka-ka  stood  looking  out  at  the  fiery  sun- 
set with  a  sad  and  absorbed  expression.  He 
did  not  hear  the  patter  of  bare  feet  on  the  rock 
behind  him,  nor  did  he  turn  till  a  small  hand 
nestled  in  his  own  and  a  boy's  clear  voice  said  : 

"  Ah,  Tata !  To-morrow  we  go  to  the  plant- 
ing !  The  governor  has  said  it.  And  perhaps 
I  may  kill  rabbits  with  the  new  bow  thou  didst 
make  me.  When  I  am  bigger,  I  will  use  it  to 
kill  the  wicked  Apaches." 

The  man  laid  his  muscular  hand  upon  the 
boy's  head  and  drew  it  to  his  side.  "  Still  for 
war  and  the  chase  ! "  he  said,  fondly.  "  But  it 
is  better  to  kill  rabbits  and  deer  than  men. 
Think  thou  of  that,  A-chi-te.  Wt  Queres  fight 
only  to  save  our  homes,  not  for  the  sake  of 
fighting  and  plunder,  as  do  the  Apaches.  But 
thy  mother  is  very  sick  and  can  not  go  to  the 
fields,  and  it  is  not  kind  to  leave  her  alone. 
Only  that  I  am  a  councilor  of  the  city  and  must 
give  a  good  example  in  working,  I  would  stay 
with  her.  A  hundred  children  will  go  to  the 
fields,  but  thou  shalt  be  a  man  to  keep  the  town. 

'  Large  earthen  jars. 




Two  other  women  lie  sick  near  the  estii/a,  and 
thou  shall  care  for  thy  mother  and  for  them." 

The  boy's  lip  quivered  an  instant  with  dis- 
appointment; but  Pueblo  children  never  even 
think  disobedience,  and  he  shut  his  teeth  firmly. 

"  Poor  Nana !  "  (little  mother)  he  said,  "  poor 
little  Mamma !  Truly  she  can  not  be  left  alone. 
And,  if  the  .\pachcs  come,  I  will  roll  down 
such  stones  on  them  that  they  shall  think  the 
Hero  Brothers  have  come  down  from  the  Sun- 
Father's  house  to  fight  for  Acoma !  " 

"That  is  my  brav-e.  Now  run  thou  home 
and  grind  the  dried  meat  and  put  it  in  my 
pouch,  that  I  may  be  ready  to  start  early.  All 
else  is  done.  If  thou  dost  well  while  I  am 
gone,  I  will  make  tliee  the  best  bow  and  quiver 
of  arrows  in  all  Acoma." 

A-chi-te  started  homeward,  running  like  a 
deer.  He  was  fifteen  years  old,  tall  for  his  age, 
clean-limbed  and  deep-chested.  His  heavy 
black  hair  was  cut  straight  above  his  big,  black 
eyes,  and  behind  fell  below  his  shoulders.  He 
had  the  massive  but  clear-cut  features  of  his 
father  —  a  face  of  remarkable  strength  and 
beauty,  despite  the  swarthy  skin. 

Sho-ka-ka  sighed  as  the  boy  ran  off.  "  It  is 
in  an  ill  time  that  we  start  for  the  planting.  I 
saw  an  owl  in  the  cedars  to-day,  and  it  would 
not  fly  when  I  shouted.  And  when  I  smoked 
the  holy  smoke,  I  could  not  blow  it  upward  at 
all.  Perhaps  the  spirits  are  angry  with  us.  It 
is  good  that  we  make  a  sacrifice  to-night,  to  put 
their  anger  to  sleep."  And  he  strode  thought- 
fully away  to  the  great,  round  cstufa,  where  the 
councilors  were  to  smoke  and  deliberate  upon 
the  morrow's  work. 

When  the  Sun-Father  peeped  over  the  eastern 
mesas  in  the  morning,  he  looked  in  the  eyes  of 
his  expectant  children.  Motionless  and  statu- 
esque they  stood  upon  the  house-tops,  awaiting 
his  coming ;  and  now  they  bowed  reverently  as 
his  round,  red  house  rose  above  the  horizon.  A 
solemn  sacrifice  had  been  offered  the  night  before, 
and  all  the  medicine-men  deemed  the  omens 
favorable,  save  old  Poo-ya-tye,  who  shook 
his  head  but  could  not  tell  what  he  feared. 

Already  an  active  young  brave  had  rounded- 
up  the  hundreds  of  burros  at  the  foot  of  the 
rock;  and  now  a  long  procession  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  bearing  heavy  burdens 

for  the  packs,  was  starting  toward  the  southern 
brink  of  the  cliff.  A  deep,  savage  cleft,  gnawed 
out  by  the  rains  of  centuries,  afibrded  a  dan- 
gerous path  for  five  hundred  feet  downward ; 
and  then  began  the  great  Ladder  Rock.  A 
vast  stone  column,  once  part  of  the  mesa,  but 
cut  off  by  the  erosion  of  unnumbered  ages,  had 
toppled  over  so  that  its  top  leaned  against  the 
cliff,  its  base  being  two  hundred  feet  out  in  a 
young  mountain  of  soft,  white  sand.  Up  this 
almost  precipitous  rock  a  series  of  shallow  steps 
had  been  cut.  To  others,  this  dizzy  ladder 
would  have  seemed  insurmountable ;  but  these 
sure-footed  Children  of  the  Sun  thought  nothing 
of  it.  It  gave  the  only  possible  access  to  the 
mesa's  top,  and  a  well-aimed  stone  would  roll 
a  climbing  enemy  in  gory  fragments  to  the  bot- 
tom. They  could  afford  a  little  trouble,  for  the 
sake  of  having  the  most  impregnable  city  in  the 
world — these  quiet  folk  who  hated  war,  but 
lived  among  the  most  desperate  savage  war- 
riors the  world  has  ever  known — Apaches, 
Comanches,  Navajos,  and  Utes. 

The  seeds,  the  provisions,  the  stone  hand- 
mills,  the  stone  a.xes  and  hoes,  the  rude  plows 
—  each  made  of  a  young  pine,  with  one  short, 
strong  branch  left  near  the  butt  for  a  share — 
were  packed  upon  the  patient  burros.  Upon 
other  burros  mounted  the  men,  riding  double, 
and  the  women,  each  with  children  clinging 
before  and  behind  her.  As  Sho-ka-ka  rode 
away,  he  turned  to  look  up  once  more  at  the 
Rock,  and  at  the  tiny  figure  outlined  against  the 
sky.  It  seemed  no  more  than  a  wee  black  ant, 
but  he  knew  it  was  his  son,  A-chi-te,  and  waved 
his  hand  as  he  yelled  back,  "Sha-wa-tsos/i/" 
from  lungs  as  mighty  as  those  of  Montezuma. 

In  half  an  hour  the  long  procession  had 
melted  into  the  brown  bosom  of  the  valley; 
and  even  A-chi-te's  keen  eyes  could  distinguish 
it  no  longer.  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  threw 
back  his  square  young  shoulders,  and  walked 
away  to  his  mother's  house.  Alone  \nth  three 
sick  women,  the  only  man  in  Acoma — no  won- 
der the  boy's  head  was  carried  even  straighter 
than  usual.  Truly,  this  was  better  than  going 
to  the  planting.  All  the  boys  had  gone  there, 
but  he  was  trusted  to  guard  alone  the  proudest 
city  of  the  Queres ! 

He  ran  up  the  tall  ladder  and  entered  the 



house.  At  one  side  of  the  dark  Kttle  room  la\- 
his  mother  on  a  low  bed  of  skins.  The  boy 
put  his  warm  cheek  against  the  wasted  face, 
and  a  thin  hand  crept  up  and  stroked  his  heavy 
hair.  "  Little  one  of  my  heart,"  she  whispered, 
"  are  they  all  gone  ?  " 

"  All  gone,  Nana,  and  I  am  left  to  guard  thee 
and  the  town.  Now,  await  me  while  I  make 
thee  a  drink  oi  atole."* 

A-chi-te  went  over  to  the  big  lava  metale,\  at 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  drew  from  a  buck- 
skin bag  a  handful  of  blue  corn  that  had  been 
parched  in  the  big  beehive  of  an  oven,  and,  lay- 

ried  a  supply  of  gnarled  cedar  sticks  into  each 
house  to  feed  the  queer  little  mud  fire-places, — 
for,  at  that  altitude  of  over  seven  thousand  feet, 
it  was  cold  even  in  summer, —  A-chi-te  turned 
his  attention  to  the  duty  which  naturally  seemed 
to  his  boyish  ambition  the  most  important  —  to 
guard  the  town.  He  slung  over  his  shoulder 
his  bow  and  arrows,  in  a  case  made  from  the 
skin  of  mo-keit-c/hi,  the  mountain-hon.  Then 
he  went  scouring  over  the  pueblo,  gathering  up 
all  the  stones  he  could  find,  from  the  size  of  his 
fist  to  that  of  his  head,  and  carried  them  down 
to  the  foot  of  the  great  cleft  where  the  Ladder 


ing  the  hard  kernels  on  the  sloping  block,  began 
to  scrub  them  to  powder  with  a  small  slab  of 
lava,  flat  on  one  side  and  rounded  on  the  other 
to  fit  the  hand.  When  the  com  was  reduced  to  a 
fine,  bluish  meal,  he  brushed  it  carefully  into  a 
litrie  earthen  bowl,  and  with  a  gourd-cup  dipped 
some  burro's  milk  from  a  caJeU-.\  This  he  poured 
slowly  upon  the  meal,  stirring  with  a  stick,  till 
the  bowl  was  full  of  a  thin,  sweet  porridge. 

"  Drink,  Nana,"  he  said,  holding  the  bowl  to 
her  lips,  and  supporting  her  head  on  his  left 
arm.  "  Then  I  will  carry  ato/c  to  Stchu-muts 
and  Kush-eit-ye." 

When  he  had  fed  his  three  charges  and  car- 

*  .\  gruel  made  by  boiling  Indian  corn  in  water  or  milk 
inclined  plane,  used  for  grinding  corn. 

Vol..   XVII.— 24. 

Rock  began.  Here  he  stowed  them  in  a  little 
recess  in  the  rock ;  and  as  they  were  not  so 
many  as  he  thought  desirable,  he  added  to 
them  several  score  adobe  bricks  from  ruined 
houses.  When  this  was  done,  he  viewed  his 
battery  with  great  satisfaction.  "  Now  let  the 
Apaches  come!  Truly,  they  will  find  it  bitter 
climbing ! "  And,  indeed,  it  was  so.  So  long 
as  his  rude  ammunition  .should  hold  out,  the 
boy  alone  coidd  hold  at  bay  a  thousand  foes. 
No  arrow  could  reach  to  his  lofty  perch,  nor 
could  the  strongest  climber  withstand  even  his 
lightest  missile  on  that  dizzy  "  ladder." 

A-chi-te  now  brought  down  some  skins,  and 

t  .\  curved  stone  in  the  shape  of  an 
}  X  flat  bowl  of  clay. 




made  a  little  bed  beside  his  pile  of  stones. 
There  was  no  danger  that  the  Apaches  would 
come  in  the  daytime,  and  he  would  sleep  with 
his  weapons  by  his  side,  so  that  they  should  not 
surprise  him  by  night.  During  the  day  he  could 
devote  himself  to  the  sick. 

Two  days  went  by  uneventfully,  and  A-chi-te 
was  disappointed.  Why  did  not  the  .Vpaches 
come,  that  he  might  show  his  father  how  well 
he  could  guard  Acoma  ?  The  third  day  dawned 
cloudy,  and  a  ragged,  sullen  drift  hid  the  Peak 
of  Snow,  away  to  the  north.  In  the  afternoon 
the  rain  began  to  sweep  down  violently,  a  sav- 
age wind  dashing  it  against  the  adobes  as 
if  to  hurl  them  from  their  solid  foundations. 
Little  rivers  ran  down  the  streets  and  poured 
from  tiie  edges  of  the  clitT  in  hissing  cataracts. 
A  perfect  torrent  was  running  down  the  cleft, 
and  spreading  out  over  the  great  Ladder  Rock 
in  a  film  of  foam.  Luckily,  .V-chi-te's  missiles 
and  bed  were  out  of  its  reach. 

"  Surely  thou  wilt  not  sleep  in  the  Ladder 
to-night,"  said  his  mother,  as  she  listened  to 
the  roar  of  the  storm. 

"  Yes,  Nana,  it  must  be.  On  such  a  night 
the  .\paches  are  likeliest  to  come.  I  am  not 
salt,  that  the  rain  should  melt  me ;  and  my  bed 
is  above  the  running  water.  What  would  Tata 
say,  if  he  came  home  and  found  1  had  let  the 
Apaches  in,  for  fear  of  getting  myself  wet  ?  " 

When  he  had  fed  the  sick,  .\-chi-te  took  his 
bow  and  (]ui\cr  and  started  for  his  post.  It  was 
already  growing  dark,  and  the  storm  showed  no 
sign  of  abatement.  It  was  a  fearful  climb  down 
to  his  little  crow's-nest  of  a  fort.  The  narrow 
slipper}-  path  was  at  an  average  angle  of  over  fifty 
degrees,  and  was  now  choked  with  a  seething 
torrent.  He  had  at  one  time  to  climb  along 
precarious  ledges  above  the  water,  and  at  an- 
other to  trust  himself  waist-deep  in  that  ava- 
lanche of  foam  —  keeping  from  being  swejjt 
down  to  instant  death  only  by  pressing  des- 
perately against  the  rocky  walls  of  the  gorge, 
here  not  more  than  three  feet  apart.  But  at 
last,  trembling  with  exhaustion,  he  drew  himself 
up  to  his  little  niche  and  sank  upon  his  drenched 
bed,  while  the  white  torrent  bellowed  and  raxed 
under  his  feet,  as  if  maddened  at  the  loss  of  its 
expected  prey. 

Deeper  and  deeper  grew  the  darkness,  fiercer 

and  fiercer  the  storm.  Such  a  rain  had  never 
been  seen  before  in  all  the  country  of  the  Hano 
Oshatch.  It  came  down  in  great  sheets  that 
veered  and  slanted  with  the  desperate  wind, 
dug  up  stout  cedars  by  the  roots,  and  pried 
great  rocks  from  their  lofty  perches  to  send 
them  thundering  down  the  valley.  To  the 
shivering  boy,  drenched  and  alone  in  his  angle 
of  the  giant  chff,  it  was  a  fearful  night ;  and 
older  heroes  than  he  might  have  been  pardoned 
for  uneasiness.  But  he  never  thought  of  leav- 
ing his  post;  and,  hugging  the  rocky  wall  to 
escape  as  far  as  he  couKl  the  pitiless  pelting 
of  the  cold  rain,  he  watched  the  long  hours 

"  .\-chi-te  :  .\-chi-te  !  " 

Surely  that  could  not  be  his  mother's  voice  ! 
The  gray  of  dawn  was  beginning  to  assert  itself 
on  the  dense  blackness  of  the  sky.  The  rain 
and  the  wind  were  more  savage  than  ever.  She 
could  not  be  heard  from  the  house  he  thought 
—  and  yet 

".\-chi-te!  A-chi-te!  " 

It  7i.'iis  her  voice;  and  in  suq^rise  and  con- 
sternation .\-chi-te  started  up  the  cleft.  It  was 
still  dark  in  that  narrow,  lofty-walled  chasm ;  the 
torrent  was  deeper  and  wilder  than  before.  It 
was  easier  to  go  up  than  down  in  such  a  place ; 
but  it  was  all  his  lithe  young  limbs  and  strong 
muscles  could  do  to  bring  him  to  the  top. 
There  stood  his  mother,  her  soft,  black  hair 
blown  far  out  on  the  fierce  wind,  her  great  eyes 
shining  unnaturally  in  their  shrunken  settings. 

"  SasJie  Diiil-yei-sa.'  The  house  is  fallen !  It 
has  broken  my  arm,  and  Kush-eit-ye  is  buried 
to  her  head  under  a  wall,  'i'he  white  shadows 
have  come  for  us  1  Thou  must  run  to  thy 
father,  and  Itring  him  home  before  we  die ! 
Run,  my  brave,  soul  of  my  heart !  " 

The  boy  looked  at  her,  and  then  down  the 
roaring  chasm.  It  was  far  worse  than  when 
he  had  descended  before.  .\nd  the  Ladder 
Rock  —  could  he  do  it?  He  put  his  arm 
across  his  mother's  shoulder  and  drew  her  head 
against  his  cheek,  patting  her  back  gently, —  the 
quaint  embrace  of  his  people. 

"  Get  thee  into  a  house,  Nana.  I  go  for  Tata. 
S/ia-iua-tsos/i.'"  And  in  another  moment  he 
had  disappeared  between  the  black  jaws  of  the 



21  I 

The  horror  of  a  hfe- 
time  was  in  that  few 
hundred  feet.  Blinded 
by  the  rain,  deafened  by 
the  hoarse  thunder  of 
the  stream,  he  let  him- 
self down  foot  by  foot 
with  desperate  strength. 
Once  the  flood  swept 
his  feet  from  under  him 
and  left  him  hanging 
by  the  clutch  of  his 
hands  upon  the  walls. 
It  took  two  full  min- 
utes to  bring  his  feet 
back  to  the  rock  be- 
neath. But  at  last  he 
came  to  where  the  cleft 
widened  and  the  frantic 
stream  spouted  out  and 
went  rolling  down  the 
precipitous  slope  of  the 
Ladder  Rock.  Here 
he  stood  a  moment  to 
catch  his  breath,  and 
then  turning,  began  to 
back  do^Ti  the  slippery 
rock,  his  hands  dug 
fiercely  into  one  foot- 
notch,  whOe  his  toes 
groped  in  the  hissing 
water  for  the  notch  be- 
low. His  teeth  were 
set,  his  bronze  face  was 
a  ghastly  gray,  his  eyes 
were  like  coals.  The 
wet  strands  of  his  hair 
whipped  his  face  like 
scourges,  his  finger-ends 
were  bleeding  as  he 
pressed  them  against  the 

sandstone.  But  slowly,  automatically  as  a  ma- 
chine, he  crept  down,  down,  fighting  the  fierce 
water,  clinging  to  the  tiny  toe-holes.  Once  he 
stopped.  He  was  sure  that  he  felt  the  rock 
tremble,  and  then  despised  himself  for  the 
thought.  The  great  Ladder  Rock  tremble  ? 
Why,  it  was   as  solid  as  the  mighty  mesa  I 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  he  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  rock ;  and  when  he  looked  down- 

is    THE    STONE    CLEFT. 

ward,  over  his  shoulder,  he  cried  out  aghast. 
The  cataract  had  had  its  way  with  the  great 
hill  of  fine  sand  on  which  the  base  of  the  rock 
rested;  and  where  the  path  had  been  was 
now  a  great  gully  fifty  feet  deep.  To  drop 
was  certain  death.  He  thought  for  a  moment. 
Ah  !  the />i/io/i  .'*  And  he  crawled  to  the  side  of 
the  rock,  which  was  here  only  a  gentle  slope. 
Sure  enough  there  was  the  pii'wyi  tree  still  stand- 

*  Pine-tree  (literally,  the  pine-nut  seed  or  kernel). 

21  2 


ing,  but  on  the  very  edge  of  the  chasm.  It  was 
fifteen  feet  out  and  ten  feet  below  him  —  an 
ugly  jump.  But  he  drew  a  long  breath  and 
leaped  out.  Crashing  down  through  the  brittle 
branches,  bruised  and  torn  and  bleeding,  he 
righted  himself  at  last  and  drop])ed  to  the 
ground.  A  moment's  breathing  spell  and  he 
was  dashing  down  the  long  sand-hill,  and  then 
away  up  the  valley.  The  fields  were  eight  miles 
away.  Would  his  strength  last,  sorely  tried  as 
it  had  been  ?  He  did  not  know  ;  but  he  pressed 
his  hand  against  his  bleeding  side  and  ran  on. 

Suddenly  he  felt  the  ground  quiver  beneath 
his  feet.  A  strange,  rushing  sound  filled  his  ears ; 
and,  whirling  about,  he  saw  the  great  Ladder 
Rock  rear,  throw  its  head  out  from  the  cliff, 
reel  there  an  instant  in  mid-air,  and  then  go 
toppling  out  into  the  plain  like  some  wounded 
Titan.  .•\s  those  thousands  of  tons  of  rock  smote 
upon  the  solid  earth  with  a  hideous  roar,  a  great 
cloud  went  up,  and  the  valley  seemed  to  rock  to 
and  fro.  From  the  face  of  the  cliffs  three  miles 
away,  great  rocks  came  leaping  and  thundering 
down ;  and  the  tall  pifions  swayed  and  bowcfl 
as  before  a  hurricane.  .\-chi-le  was  thrown 
headlong  by  the  shock,  and  lay  stunned.  The 
Ladder  Rock  had  fallen — the  unprecedented 
flood  had  undermined  its  sandy  bed ! 

.•\nd  the  town, —  his  mother — !  The  boy 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  running  again, 
stiffly,  and  with  an  awful  pallor  on  his  set  face. 

When  the  men  of  .\coma  came  gallop- 
ing home  on  foaming  burros,  it  was  in  deathly 
silence.  And  even  when  they  stood  beside 
that  vast  fallen  pillar  of  stone,  looking  up  at 
the  accursed  cliff,  not  one  could  speak  a  word. 
There  was  Acoma,  the  city  in  the  sky.  the  home 
of  their  forefathers ; 
but  their  feet  would 
never  press  its  rock\ 
streets  again.  Fi\c 
hundred  feet  abo\  l 
their  heads  opened 
the  narrow  cleft : 
and  five  hundred 
feet  higher,  against 
the  sullen  grav  skv. 

flitted  two  wan  figures  whose  frantic  shrieks 
scarce  reached  the  awe-struck  crowd  below. 
No  ladder  could  ever  be  built  to  scale  that 
dizzy  height.  The  clift"  everywhere  was  peri)en- 
dicular.  And  so,  forever  exiled  from  the  homes 
that  were  before  their  eyes,  robbed  of  their  all, 
heart-wrung  by  the  sight  of  the  doomed  women 
on  the  cliff,  the  simple-liearled  Children  of  the 
Sun  circled  long  about  the  fatal  Rock  of  Kat- 
zimo.  Council  after  council  was  held,  sacrifice 
after  sacrifice  was  offered ;  but  the  merciless 
clift"  .still  frowned  unpitying.  It  became  plain 
that  they  must  build  a  new  town  to  be  safe  from 
the  savage  tribes  which  surrounded  them  on 
every  side  ;  and  on  a  noble  mesa,  three  miles 
to  the  south,  they  founded  a  new  .\coma,  where 
it  stands  to-day,  five  hundred  feet  above  the 
plain,  and  safe  from  a  similar  catastro])he. 

For  weeks  the  two  women  haunted  the  brink 
of  their  aerial  prison,  and  daily  Sho-ka-ka  and 
A-chi-te  went  to  its  foot  with  sympathizing 
neighbors  to  weep,  and  to  scream  out  words 
of  hopeless  encouragement.  Then  Stchu-muts 
came  no  more,  and  Nai-chat-tye  was  alone. 
Back  and  forth  .she  paced,  like  some  caged 
beast  chafing  at  the  bars ;  and  then,  throwing 
up  her  wasted  arms,  sprang  out  to  her  death. 

Full  four  hundred  years  have  passed  .since 
then,  and  the  land  of  the  Pueblos  is  filling  with 
a  race  of  white-skinned  strangers.  Scientific 
expeditions  have  exhausted  the  ingenuity  of 
civilization  to  scale  the  Rock  of  Katzimo  and 
recover  its  archaeological  treasures,  but  all  in 
vain.  The  natives  shun  it,  believing  it  accursed. 
And  to-day,  as  I  sit  on  the  rocky  battlements  of 
the  Acoma  that  now  is,  watching  the  sunset  glory 

creeping  higher  up 
that  wondrous  island 
of  ruddy  rock  to  the 
north,  an  old  Indian 
at  my  side  tells  the 
oft-repeated  stor)^  of 
the  Enchanted  Mesa. 
He  is  the  many- 
times  -  great-grand- 
son of  A-chi-te. 


By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 

The  story  which  I  am  about  to  relate  was 
told  me  beside  the  camp-fire,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Big  Squatook,  in  south-eastern  Quebec. 

The  wild  regions  about  the  Squatook  lakes 
are  rich  in  fish  and  game.  With  their  virgin 
forests,  wild  streams,  exquisite  and  varied  land- 
scapes, this  country  is  a  Paradise  for  sportsmen 
and  canoemen.  A  party  of  four,  devotees 
of  gun  and  rod  and  paddle,  we  went  one  Jul}- 
to  this  land  of  the  Big  Squatook ;  and  round 
the  camp-fire  one  chilly  evening,  when  a  sudden 
north  wind  had  put  an  abrupt  end  to  our  fish- 
ing, Stranion,  being  in  a  certain  sense  the  leader 
of  our  party,  was  called  upon  for  a  story  of 
adventure.  We  all  were  experienced  woods- 
men, with  a  large  stock  of  stories  at  our  com- 
mand ;  but  Stranion's  experience  was  the  widest, 
and  to  him  had  fallen  the  strangest  and  most 
thrilling  adventures.  'When  Stranion  was  not 
w-ith  us,  a  good  yam  might  be  elicited  from 
the  lips  of  W.  B.,  or  Sam,  or  even  my.self ;  but 
in  Stranion's  presence  we  paled  our  "  uneftectual 
fires."  It  was  on  this  account,  perhaps,  that  we 
were  given  to  interrupting  Stranion  with  occa- 
sional gibes  and  questionings,  lest  he  should  grow 
too  overwhelmingly  conscious  of  the  superiorit}- 
of  his  gift. 

When  we  had  heaped  our  camp-fire  to  thrice 
its  accustomed  height,  and  had  huddled  our- 
selves comfortably  in  our  blankets  under  the  lee 
of  the  tent,  we  turned  our  attention  to  Stranion, 
and  Stranion  began : 

"  Boys,  the  air  bites  shrewdly.  It  is  a  nipping 
and  an  eager  air.  In  fact,  it  puts  me  forcibly  in 
mind  of  one  of  mv  best  adventures,  which  befell 

me  that  winter  when  I  was  trapping  on  the  Little 
Sou'vvest  Miramichi." 

"  Oh,  come !  Tell  us  a  good  summer  story, 
old  man,"  interrupted  W.  B.  "  I  'm  half  frozen 
as  it  is,  to-night.  Tell  us  about  some  place 
down  in  the  tropics  where  they  have  to  cool 
their  porridge  with  boiling  water." 

"  Nay,"  replied  Stranion,  "  my  thoughts  are 
\\intry,  and  even  so  must  my  story  be." 

He  traced  in  the  air  a  few  meditative  circles 
with  his  pipe  (which  he  rarely  smoked,  using  it 
rather  for  oratorical  effect),  and  then  resumed : 

"  That  was  a  hard  winter  of  mine  on  the  Little 
Sou'west.  I  enjoyed  it  at  the  time,  and  it  did 
me  good ;  but,  looking  back  upon  it  now,  I 
wonder  what  induced  me  to  undertake  it.  I 
got  the  experience,  and  I  indulged  my  hobby 
to  the  full ;  but  by  spring  I  felt  like  a  barbarian. 
It  is  a  fine  thing,  boys,  as  we  all  agree,  to  be  an 
amateur  woodsman,  and  it  brings  a  fellow  very 
close  to  nature ;  but  it  is  much  more  sport  in 
summer  than  in  winter,  and  it 's  better  when  one 
has  good  company  than  when  he  's  no  one  to 
talk  to  but  a  pretematurally  gloomy  Melicite. 

'■I  had  Noel  with  me  that  winter  —  a  good 
hunter  and  true,  but  about  as  companionable  as 
a  mud-turtle.  Our  traps  were  set  in  two  great 
circuits,  one  on  the  south  side  of  the  stream,  the 
other  on  the  north.  The  range  to  the  north  was 
in  my  own  charge,  and  a  ^-ery  big  charge  it 
was.  When  I  had  any  sort  of  luck,  it  used 
to  take  me  a  day  and  a  half  to  make  the  round, 
for  I  had  seventeen  traps  to  tend,  spread  out 
o\-er  a  range  of  about  twenty  miles.  But  when 
the  traps  were  not  well  filled,  I  used  to  do  it 




without  sleeping  awaj'  from  cam]).  It  's  not 
much  like  play,  I  can  tell  you,  tramping  all  day 
on  snow-shoes  through  those  woods,  carrying  an 
axe,  a  fowling-piece,  food,  ammunition,  and 
sometimes  a  pack  of  furs.  Whenever  I  had  to 
sleep  out,  I  would  dig  a  big  oblong  hole  in  the 
snow,  build  a  roaring  fire  at  one  end  of  the  hole, 
bury  myself  in  hemlock  boughs  at  the  other  end, 
and  snooze  like  a  dormouse  till  morning.  I 
relied  implicitly  on  the  fire  to  keep  off  any  bears 
or  Indian  Devils*  that  might  be  feeling  inquisi- 
tive as  to  whether  I  would  be  good  eating. 

"  The  snow  must  have  been  fully  six  feet  dee]) 
that  year.  One  morning,  near  the  last  of 
February,  I  had  set  out  on  my  round,  and  had 
made  some  three  miles  from  our  shanty,  when 
I  caught  sight  of  a  covey  of  j)artri(lges  in  the 
distance,  and  turned  out  of  my  way  to  get  a 
shot  at  them.  It  had  occurred  to  me  that  per- 
chance a  brace  of  tiiem  might  make  savory 
morsels  for  my  sujiper.  .\fter  a  considerable 
deioiir,  I  bagged  my  birds  and  recovered  my  trail 
near  the  last  trap  I  had  visited.  My  tracks,  as 
I  had  left  them,  had  been  solitary  enough  ;  but 
now  I  found  the\'  were  accompanied  by  the 
foot-prints  of  a  large  Indian  Devil. 

"  I  did  n't  really  expect  to  get  a  shot  at  the 
beast,  but  I  loaded  both  barrels  with  ball-car- 
tridges. As  I  went  on,  however,  it  began  to  strike 
me  as  strange  that  the  brute  should  ha])pen  to 
be  going  so  far  in  my  direction.  Step  for  step  his 
foot-prints  clung  to  mine.  When  I  reached  the 
place  where  I  had  branched  oft"  in  search  of  the 
partridges,  I  found  that  the  panther  had  branched 
off  with  me.  So  polite  a  conformity  of  his  ways 
to  mine  could  have  but  one  significance.  I  was 
being  tracked ! 

"  The  idea,  when  it  first  struck  me,  struck  me 
with  too  much  force  to  be  agreeable.  It  was  a 
very  unusual  proceeding  on  the  part  of  an  In- 
dian Devil,  displaying  a  most  imperfect  concep- 
tion of  the  fitness  of  things.  That  I  should  hunt 
him  was  proper  and  customary;  but  that  he 
should  think  of  hunting  me  was  presumptuous 
and  most  unpleasant.  I  resolved  that  he  should 
be  made  to  repent  it  before  night. 

"The  traps  were  unusually  successful  that 
trip,  and  at  last  I  had  to  stop  and  make  a  cache 
of  my  spoils.  This  unusual  delay  seemed  to  mis- 

*  A  name  sometimes 

lead  my  wily  jnirsuer,  who  suddenly  came  out 
of  a  thicket  while  I  was  hidden  behind  a  tree 
trunk.  As  he  crept  stealthily  along  on  my  tracks, 
not  fifty  yards  away,  I  was  disgusted  at  his  sleuth- 
hound  persistence  and  crafty  malignity.  I  raised 
my  gun  to  my  .shoulder,  and  in  another  moment 
would  have  rid  myself  of  his  undesired  attentions, 
but  the  animal  must  have  caught  a  gleam  from 
the  shining  barrels,  for  lie  turned  like  a  tlash  and 
buried  himself  in  the  thicket. 

"  It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  wish  the  mat- 
ter forced  to  an  immediate  issue,  .^s  a  conse- 
quence, I  decided  tliat  it  ought  to  be  settled  at 
once.  I  ran  toward  the  thicket,  but  at  the  same 
time  the  panther  stole  out  on  the  other  side  and 
disa])peared  in  the  woods. 

"  Upon  this  I  concluded  that  he  had  become 
scared  and  given  uj)  his  unhallowed  purpose. 
For  some  hours  I  dismissed  him  from  my  mind 
and  tended  my  traps  witliout  further  a])])rehen- 
sion.  But  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  or 
a  little  later,  when  I  had  reached  the  furthest 
point  on  my  circuit,  I  once  more  became  im- 
pressed with  a  sense  that  I  was  being  followed. 
The  impression  grew  so  strong  that  it  weighed 
upon  me,  and  I  determined  to  bring  it  to  a  test. 
Taking  some  luncheon  from  my  pocket,  I  .sat 
down  behind  a  tree  to  nibble  and  wait.  I  su])- 
pose  I  must  have  sat  there  ten  minutes,  hearing 
nothing,  seeing  nothing,  .so  that  I  was  about  to 
give  it  up  and  continue  my  tramj),  when  — along 
came  the  panther !  My  gun  was  leveled  in.stantly, 
but  at  that  same  instant  the  brute  had  disap- 
peared. His  eyes  were  sharper  than  mine.  '  Ah  ! ' 
said  I  to  myself, '  I  shall  have  to  keep  a  big  fire 
going  to-night,  or  this  fellow  will  pay  me  a  call 
when  I  am  snoring ! '  " 

"  Oh  !  surely  not !  "  murmured  W.  B.,  pen- 
sively. The  rest  of  us  laughed,  but  Stranion  only 
waved  his  pipe  with  a  gesture  that  commanded 
silence,  and  went  on : 

"  About  sundown  I  met  with  an  unlucky  acci- 
dent, which  dampened  both  my  spirits  and  my 
powder.  In  crossing  a  swift  brook,  at  a  place 
where  the  ice  was  hardly  thick  enough  to  hold  up 
its  covering  of  snow,  I  broke  through  and  was 
soaked.  After  fishing  myself  out  with  some  dif- 
ficulty, I  found  my  gun  was  full  of  water  which 
had  frozen  as  it  entered.  Here  was  a  pretty 
given  to  panthers. 



fix !  The  weapon  was  for  the  present  utterly 
useless.  I  feared  that  most  of  my  cartridges 
were  in  like  condition.  The  prospect  for  the 
night,  when  the  Indian  Devil  should  arrive  upon 
the  scene,  was  not  a  cheerful  one.  I  pushed  on 
miserably  for  another  mile  or  so,  anil  then  pre- 
pared to  camp. 

"  First  of  all,  I  built  such  a  fire  as  I  thought 
would  impress  upon  the  Indian  Devil  a  due  sense 
of  my  importance  and  my  mysterious  powers. 
At  a  safe  distance  from  the  fire  I  spread  out  my 
cartridges  to  dry,  in  the  fervent  hope  that  the 
water  had  not  penetrated  far  enough  to  render 
them  useless.  My  gun  I  put  where  it  would  thaw 
as  quickly  as  possible. 

"  Then  I  cut  enough  fire-wood  to  blaze  all 
night.  With  my  snow-shoes  I  dug  a  deep  hollow 
at  one  side  of  the  fire.  The  fire  soon  melted 
the  snow  beneath  it  and  brought  it  down  to  the 
level  whereon  I  was  to  place  my  couch.  I  may 
say  that  the  ground  I  had  selected  was  a  gentle 
slope,  and  the  fire  was  below  my  bed,  so  that 
the  melting  snows  could  run  off  freely.  Over 
my  head  I  fixed  a  good,  firm  '  lean-to  '  of  spruce 
saplings,  thickly  thatched  with  boughs.  Thus  I 
secured  myself  in  such  a  way  that  the  Indian 
Devil  could  come  at  me  only  from  the  side  on 
which  the  fire  was  burning.  Such  approach,  I 
congratulated  myself,  would  be  little  to  His 
Catship's  taste. 

"  By  the  time  my  shelter  was  completed  it  was 
full  night  in  the  woods.  My  fire  made  a  ruddy 
circle  about  the  camp,  and  presently  I  discerned 
the  panther,  gliding  in  and  out  among  the  tree- 
trunks  on  the  outer  edges  of  the  circle.  He 
stared  at  me  with  his  round  green  eyes,  and  I 
returned  the  gaze  with  cold  indifference.  I  was 
busy  putting  my  gun  in  order.  I  would  not  en- 
courage him  lest  he  might  grow  too  familiar 
before  I  was  ready  for  his  reception. 

"  Between  my  gleaming  walls  of  snow  I  had 
worked  up  a  temperature  that  was  fairly  tropical. 
/Vway  up  overhead,  among  the  pine-tops,  a  few 
large  stars  glimmered  lonesomely.  How  far 
away  seemed  the  world  of  my  friends  on  whom 
these  same  stars  were  looking  down !  I  won- 
dered how  those  at  home  would  feel  if  they 
could  see  me  there  by  my  solitary  camp-fire, 
watched  relentlessly  by  that  prowling  and  vin- 
dictive beast. 

"  Presently,  finding  that  I  made  no  attack 
upon  him,  the  brute  slipped  noiselessly  up  to 
within  a  dozen  paces  of  the  fire.  There  he 
crouched  down  in  the  snow  and  glared  upon 
me.  I  hurled  a  flaming  brand  at  him  and  he 
sprang  backward,  snarling,  into  the  gloom.  But 
the  brand  spluttered  in  the  snow  and  went  out, 
whereupon  the  brute  returned  to  his  post.  Then 
I  threw  another  at  him ;  but  he  regarded  it  this 
time  with  contempt,  merely  drawing  aside  to 
give  it  room.  When  it  had  gone  black  out,  he 
approached,  pawed  it  over,  and  sniffed  in  su- 
premest  contempt.  Then  he  came  much  nearer, 
so  that  I  thought  he  was  about  to  spring  upon 
me.  I  moved  discreetly  to  the  other  side  of  the 

"  By  this  time  the  gun  was  ready  for  action, 
but  not  so  the  cartridges.  They  were  lying 
further  from  the  fire  and  dangerously  near  my 
unwelcome  visitor.  I  perceived  that  I  must  make 
a  diversion  at  once. 

"  Selecting  a  resinous  stick,  into  which  the  fire 
had  eaten  deeply,  so  that  it  held  a  mass  of  glow- 
ing coals,  I  launched  it  suddenly  with  such  care- 
ful aim  that  it  struck  right  between  the  brute's 
forelegs.  As  it  scorched  there,  he  caught  and  bit 
at  it  angrily,  dropped  it  with  a  screaming  snarl, 
and  shrank  farther  away.  When  he  crouched 
down,  biting  the  snow,  I  followed  up  my  advan- 
tage by  rushing  upon  him  with  a  blazing  roll  of 
birch-bark.  He  did  not  await  my  onset,  but 
bounded  oft"  among  the  trees,  where  I  could  hear 
him  grumbling  in  the  darkness  over  his  smarting 
mouth.  I  left  the  bark  blazing  in  the  snow  while 
I  went  back  to  see  to  my  precious  cartridges. 

"  Before  long  the  panther  reappeared  at  the 
limits  of  the  lighted  circle,  but  seemed  not 
quite  so  confident  as  before.  Nevertheless,  it  was 
clear  that  he  had  set  his  heart  on  making  a  meal 
of  me,  and  was  not  to  be  bluffed  out  of  his  design 
by  a  few  firebrands. 

"  I  discovered  that  all  my  ball-cartridges  were 
spoiled ;  but  there  were  a  few  loaded  with  shot, 
which  the  water  had  not  penetrated.  From  these 
I  withdrew  the  shot,  and  substituted  ball  and 
slugs.  Then,  slipping  a  ball-cartridge  into  one 
barrel,  slugs  into  the  other,  and  three  or  four 
extra  cartridges  into  a  handy  pocket,  I  waited 
for  my  opponent  to  recover  his  confidence.  As 
he  seemed  content  to  wait  awliile,  I  set  about 



I    SEIZED    MV    Gl'N    ANP 

broiling  my  partridges,  for  1  was  becoming  clam- 
orously hungry. 

"  So  also  was  the  ])anther,  as  it  seemed. 
When  the  odor  of  those  partridges  stole  seduc- 
tively to  his  nostrils,  he  once  more  approached 
my  fire,  and  this  time  with  an  air  of  stem  deter- 
mination quite  different  from  his  former  easy 

"  The  crisis  had  come.  I  seized  my  gun  and 
knelt  down  behind  the  fire.  I  arranged  a  burn- 
ing log  in  such  a  manner  that  I  could  grasp  and 
wield  it  with  both  hands  in  an  emergency. 
Just  as  the  animal  drew  himself  together  for  a 
spring,  I  fired  one  barrel, —  that  containing  the 
ball, —  and  shattered  his  lower  jaw.  Mad  with 
pain  and  fury,  he  sprang.  The  contents  of  my 
second  barrel,  a  heavy  charge  of  slugs,  met  him 

full  in  the  breast,  and  lie  fell  in  a  heap  at  my 

"  .As  he  lay  there,  struggling  and  snarling  and 
tearing  up  the  snow,  I  slipped  in  another  car- 
tridge ;  and  the  ne.xt  moment  a  bullet  in  his  brain 
put  an  end  to  his  miseries. 

"  After  this  ])erformance,  I  ate  my  partridges 
with  a  very  grateful  heart,  and  slept  the  sleep  of 
the  just  and  the  victorious.  The  skin  of  that 
audacious  Indian  Devil  lies  now  in  my  study, 
where  Sam  is  continually  desecrating  it  with 
his  irreverent  shoes." 

A  few  moments  after  Stranion  had  finished 
his  story,  the  camp  on  the  Big  Squatook  was 
wrapped  in  slumber,  and  the  loons  out  in  the 
bosom  of  the  moonlit  lake  were  laughing  to  one 
another  unheeded. 


By  Elia  W.  Peattie. 

^HE  theater  was  crowded 
from  the  topmost  gallery 
to  the  orchestra  chairs. 
Out  at  the  entrance  was 
the  legend  "  Standing-room 
only."  Warmth  and  music 
and  perfume  floated  out  to 
the  loungers  in  the  vestibule. 
People  chatted  in  the  dim 
light  and  commented  upon 
the  new  mural  decorations,  or  wondered  who 
the  people  in  the  boxes  could  be.  Presently  the 
orchestra  finished  the  overture.  The  "  gods  " 
in  the  gallery  grew  impatient  and  began  to  call 
for  the  curtain  to  rise.  Better-bred  people 
wondered  what  could  be  the  matter,  and  read 
the  cast,  and  all  the  advertisements,  and  then 
read  the  cast  again.  There  were  on  the  list  names 
of  men  and  women  famous  in  their  profession ; 
and,  indeed,  every  name  on  it  except  one  was 
known  to  the  impatient  audience.  This  was  a 
very  short  name  half-way  -down  the  cast,  and  it 
stood  opposite  the  character  Richard,  Duke 
of  York.  "  Joe  Wade,"  they  .read, — "  Master 
Joe  Wade,"  with  the  tliought,  "Now,  where 
did  he  come  from  ? "  and  then  they  fell  to 
studying  the  curtain  and  the  orchestra  began 
the  bars  which  served  as  a  prelude  to  the  open- 
ing of  the  play. 

At  this  time,  behind  the  scenes  everything  was 
in  a  .state  of  .systematic  busde.  Each  man  or 
woman  had  something  to  do  and  was  at  work. 
The  only  calm  figure  on  the  busy  scene  was 
that  of  Walsh,  the  stage-manager, — a  middle- 
aged  man  with  iron-gray  hair  and  mustache. 
His  face  wore  a  serious  look,  heightened  by  the 
furrows  about  the  mouth.  He  sent  directions 
and  commands  flying  to  unseen  stage-hands 
in  the  mysterious  region  below  the  floor,  or  in 
Vol.  XVII.— 25. 

the  dimly  lighted  space  above.  "  Take  that 
'  fly  '  out  of  the  way  !  "  he  shouted  to  one  ; 
"  Hoist  up  the  moon  about  two  feet.  Bring  an 
extra  '  tormentor  '  '  down  left ' !  Get  out  of  the 
way,  Pie  !  " — this  last  to  a  sharp-featiu-ed  lad  of 
sixteen  who  acted  as  call-boy.  "  Is  everything 
ready  for  the  first  act  ? "  "  Yes,"  came  the 
answer.  "  All  right !  "  said  Walsh  ;  "  clear  the 
stage."  And  there  was  a  scurrying  of  feet  as  all 
the  stage-hands  left  the  set-scene  and  huddled 
in  the  wings  to  watch  the  opening  action,  or 
went  oft"  about  their  other  duties.  One  man, 
watching  through  a  peep-hole  in  the  curtain, 
saw  the  signal  from  the  leader  of  the  orchestra, 
and  communicated  it  to  the  curtain-man  by  two 
sharp  strokes  on  a  gong,  and  sprang  oft'  the 
stage  as  the  curtain  with  a  steady  crackle 
rolled  itself  in  ponderous  folds  into  the  upper 
region.  Kings,  queens,  and  lords  moved  about 
through  the  mimic  tragedy.  Pie,  the  call- 
boy,  hurried  to  and  fro  in  a  state  of  distrac- 
tion. The  men  would  stop  to  talk  and  the 
women  to  put  the  finishing  touches  to  their 
"•make-up,"  and  they  all  seemed  to  object  to 
being  ordered  about  by  a  boy  with  freckles ;  but 
it  was  the  business  of  Pie  to  have  every  one  in 
readiness  to  step  upon  the  .stage  at  the  proper 
moment.  The  great  tragedian  was  in  excellent 
mood,  and  he  limped  and  frowned  through  the 
part  of  Richard  the  Third  (for  it  was  Shaks- 
pere's  tragedy  of  that  name  they  were  repre- 
senting) in  a  truly  blood-curdling  manner. 
He  was  as  wicked  and  cruel  as  any  one  could 
wish,  and  the  people  applauded  him  to  the 
echo.  In  the  midst  of  this  highly  successful 
act,  Pie  happened  to  go  to  the  dressing-room 
which  was  assigned  to  the  two  little  princes 
who  had  come  there  to  be  smothered.  The 
Prince  of  Wales  was  there,  in  an  elegant  velvet 




suit  and  in  a  state  of  despair.  He  was  the  son 
of  an  actor,  and  had  been  on  the  stage  ever 
since  he  could  tell  taffy  from  peanuts.  Even 
earlier,  in  fact,  for  he  had  been  carried  on  in  his 
long  clothes  and  had  then  caused  every  woman 
in  tlie  theater  to  exclaim,  "  How  lovely  !  "  This 
small  gentleman  was  in  a  rage  truly  princely. 

"  That  little  dunce,  Joe  Wade,  has  n't  turned 
up,"  he  said.  "  Now,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I 
can't  go  on  and  speak  his  lines  and  mine  too, 
and  I  suppose  the  audience  won't  be  satisfied 
with  only  one  prince." 

Pie  rushed  to  Mr.  Walsh.  "  Duke  of  York 
is  n't  here,  sir,"  he  cried. 

"  Not  here ! "  said  the  stage-manager,  in  a 
tone  of  dismay.  "  Let  us  see, —  that  is  Wade, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  wonder  what  can  be  the  matter  with  him. 
He  rehearsed  this  morning  letter  perfect.  Has 
n't  any  word  come  from  his  mother  ?  " 

"  I  '11  see,  sir,"  said  Pie  as  he  dashed  off  to 
ascertain.  The  stage-manager  stepped  quickly 
to  the  dressing-room  of  the  tragedian,  where,  in 
a  brief  absence  from  the  stage,  the  cruel  Richard 
was  eating  a  sandwich  with  evident  relish. 

"  The  boy  who  rehearsed  the  younger  prince 
has  n't  showed  up  yet,"  said  Walsh. 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  said  the  malignant  Gloster. 
"That  's  too  bad.  He  was  a  bright  lad,  'so 
young  and  yet  so  subtle. '  " 

"  Can't  we  cut  the  Duke  of  York  scene  ?  " 
suggested  the  stage-manager. 

"  No,  sir,"  retorted  the  other.  "  Not  a  line 
shall  be  cut  out.     Is  n't  there  any  one  else?" 

"  I  can't  think  of  any  one  else  who  can  do 
the  part,"  said  the  stage-manager. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  have  an  under- 
study all  coached  ready  for  an  emergency  like 
this,"  said  the  actor  with  considerable  spirit.  "  To 
cut  that  scene  will  be  to  spoil  the  act,  and  then 
we  '11  catch  it  from  the  crirics  in  the  morning." 

"  Well,  it  's  all  we  can  do  to  run  a  theater,  let 
alone  a  Foundlings'  Home,"  retorted  Walsh. 

Pie  rushed  up  in  his  usual  state  of  breathless- 
ness.     "  There  's  word  come,  sir,  from  Wade." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  It 's  his  sister,  sir.  She  says  he  's  broke  his 

"  Here  's  a  pretty  mess !  "     Walsh  stamped 

out  to  invesrigate.  He  found,  standing  in  the 
wings,  a  very  chilly  little  girl,  who  began  talking 
fast,  as  he  came  up. 

"  You  're  Mr.  Walsh,  are  n't  you  ?  Joey  's 
broken  his  leg.  He  fell  down  the  back  stairs 
just  as  he  was  starting  to  come  here.  He  tried 
to  come  even  after  that,  sir,  and  wanted  to  make 
Mamma  think  he  could  limp  all  the  better  on 
'countofit.  But 't  was  no  use.  He  just  r^/////;/'/." 
Bertha  flung  out  her  hands  in  her  earnestness; 
then  clasped  them  again.  "  And  he  cried  so 
hard.  He  said  the  piece  would  all  be  spoiled. 
That  it  was  just  no  good  at  all  if  the  princes 
were  n't  smothered  in  the  tower  and — and  what 
are  you  going  to  do,  sir  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  "  said  Mr.  Walsh.     "  I  'm  in  a  fix." 
"  I  suppose  not  another  person  knows  the 
words  to  say,"  said  Bertha ;  the  tears  dried  up 
in  her  eyes  and  they  shone  with  excitement. 
"  No,"  confessed  Mr.  Walsh,  "  not  a  soul." 
"  You  don't  think  —  "  the  little  girl  stopped 
and  trembled,  with  her  cheeks  as  red  as  hve 
coals.     "Joey  '11  just  go  crazy  if  all  the  people 
see  his  name  on  the  bill,  and  know  it  was  he 
that  spoiled  the  play."     She  choked  down  a 
sob.     "  I  could  n't  help  it,  sir,  I  really  could  n't. 
I  've  got  to  do  something.     I  shall  have  to  play 
the  part  myself."     She  looked  like  a  little  general 
about  to  storm  a  fort. 

"  Why, — have  you  ever  played  it  ?  " 
"  Lots  of  times, —  at  home  with  Joey." 
"  But  would  n't  you  be  frightened  at  all  the 
people  when  you  went  on  the  stage  ?  "     The 
stage-manager  had  a  gleam  of  hope  in  his  eye. 
"  I  don't  think  I  should.     It  would  be  easier 
than  going  home  and  teUing  Joey  the  play  was 
spoiled.     I  would  n't  look  at  them.     I  'd  just 
act.     He  says  to  me,  '  How  fares  our  loving 
brother  ?  '  and  I  say,  '  Well,  my  dread  Lord ;   so 
must  I  call  you  now. '  " 

"  Bless  me!  —  "  said  Walsh,  half  to  himself. 
"  She  knows  the  lines." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir.  I  know  all  the  words  'way 
down  to  '  I  shall  not  sleep  in  quiet  at  the 
Tower.'  Then  I  mock  King  Richard  when  he 
walks,  so."  She  drew  up  her  arms,  made  an 
imaginary  hump  and  limped  along,  scowling. 
"Then  I  make  a  face  at  him  behind  his  back 
and  tell  him,  '  I  'm  afraid  of  my  uncle  Clar- 
ence' angry  ghost.' " 



"  Capital !  "  said  the  stage-manager.  "  I  '11 
take  the  risk.  I  'm  afraid  there  's  no  time  to 
lose.  Here !  " — he  held  out  his  hand.  She  took 
it,  and  trotted  along,  stumbling  over  the  shawl 
that  was  falling  from  her  shoulders.  He  led 
her  to  the  dressing-room  of  one  of  the  ladies, 
to  which  he  presently  brought  the  Duke  of 
York's  costume.  He  explained  the  emergency, 
and  the  good-natured  actress  aided  Bertha  to 
put  on  the  little  prince's  dress.  The  next  half- 
hour  passed  like  a  dream. 

"  Mamma  and  Joey  did  n't  know  I  was  going 
to  act,"  she  explained  to  the  actress.  "  I  'm 
afraid  they  '11  think  something  dreadful  has 
happened  to  me  when  they  find  I  don't  come 
home,  but  I  knew  they  'd  think  I  could  n't,  if 
I  told  them.  Are  n't  these  clothes  a  fine  fit  ? 
We  're  exactly  the  same  size,  Joey  and  me. 
You  see  it  was  n't  only  that  Joey  could  n't  bear 
to  break  his  promise,  but  then," — frowning  a 
little  and  looking  very  serious, —  "  we  could  n't 
afford  to  lose  the  money,  either.  We  '11  need  it 
more  than  ever,  now  that  Joey's  leg  is  broken." 
She  sighed,  and  the  tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes. 
The  lady  put  her  arm  around  her  and  drew  her 

"Try  hard  not  to  be  frightened,"  said  she. 
"  Don't  think  about  the  crowd  in  front,  at  all." 

"  No,"  broke  in  Bertha,  "  I  '11  just  think  of 

"  And  when  you  stand  still,"  said  the  actress, 
"  stand  perfectly  still.  Don't  move  your  hands 
or  feet  unless  you  have  reason  to.  Be  sure  and 
look  straight  at  the  person  you  are  talking  to, 
and  when  you  speak,  hold  up  your  chin  a  little 
so  the  sound  will  go  out  into  the  house.  It  will 
be  easier  to  speak  in  a  high  tone."  She  showed 
her  how,  gave  a  few  finishing  touches  to  her 
hair, — for  they  found  it  prettier  than  the  wig, — 
and  almost  before  Bertha  knew  it,  she  was  on 
the  stage. 

In  the  mean  time,  His  Royal  Highness,  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  had  been  in  a  sad  way.  "  I 
hate  to  act  with  a  girl,"  he  said,  and  kicked  about 
his  histrionic  legs.  "  She  's  a  greeny,  too,  and 
probably  does  n't  know  her  lines.  She  's  sure 
to  spoil  my  part.  I  had  counted  on  making  a 
great  hit,  but  she  does  n't  know  anything  about 
the  proper  '  business '  of  tlie  part.  These 
wretched  '  amachures '    never   do."      But    the 

talented  young  man  was  compelled  to  bow  his 
head  to  fate  and  go  on  the  stage  at  the  proper 

Bertha's  head  swam  a  little,  and  the  words 
the  others  were  speaking  sounded  far  off.  She 
glanced  at  the  audience.  It  seemed  to  rise 
from  her  feet  up,  up  to  the  very  ceiling.  Then  it 
seemed  to  swell  into  one  immense  face  with 
myriad  eyes  all  looking  at  her.  For  one  terrible 
moment  she  was  tempted  to  cover  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  rush  from  the  stage.  Then  she 
remembered  Joey  at  home  crying  with  pain  and 
disappointment,  and  she  was  recalled   to   her 

senses  by  the  well-remembered  words :  "  How 
fares  our  loving  brother  ?  "  She  tried  to  speak 
as  if  she  always  had  been  a  prince  and  was 
quite  used  to  talking  in  such  high-sounding 
language.  She  tried  to  hate  the  wicked  Rich- 
ard, as  she  had  heard  her  mother  tell  Joey  to 
do,  and  to  speak  as  fiercely  and  saucily  as  she 
could  to  him.  She  pulled  at  his  garments  and 
mimicked  his  gait,  and  screwed  up  her  face  in 
imitation  of  his,  and  tried  to  speak  with  great 
politeness  to  the  royal  prince ;  and  in  her  heart 
all   the  time  whispered  "  Joey  !    Joey  !  "     The 




house  became  quieter  as  she  went  on  ;  tlie  child 
was  so  intent  upon  her  work.  She  never  faltered 
till  the  last  word  was  spoken,  but  when  she  was 
safe  in  the  wings  again,  she  began  to  feci  faint 
and  weak.  The  speeches  on  the  stage  were 
lost  in  a  burst  of  a])plause  that  swelled  and 
swelled  until  it  grew  quite  deafening. 

••  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said,  very  much  frightened, 
turning  to  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

The  stage-manager  came  up. 


"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  smiling  for  once  that 
evening,  "  I  believe  you  '11  have  to  go  back." 

"  And  do  it  all  over  again  ? "  said  Bertha 
aghast.  She  feared  that  she  had  made  some 
dreadful  mistake. 

"  No,  no;  go  on  and  bow  to  the  audience  and 
come  right  back  again." 

"  I  '11  lead  her  on,"  said  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

"  No,"  said  Walsh,  "  she  'd  better  go  alone." 

"  ."Vre  diey  pleased,  sir  ? "  asked  Bertha  as 
the  applause  still  continued. 

"  Well,  what  a  little  greenhorn  I  "  ejaculated 
the  prince.  The  actress  who  had  dressed  her 
gently  pushed  her  on  the  stage  again.  "  I  'm 
just  cheating,"  she  thought  to  herself;  "they 
think  it  's  Joey." 

'•  Bow  to  them,  my  dear,"  said  the  great  tra- 

gedian in  an  undertone.  .\  litde  girl  about  her 
own  age  leaned  far  out  of  the  nearest  box  and 
smiled  at  her,  and  flung  something  that  fell  just 
at  Bertha's  feet.  It  was  a  bunch  of  beautiful 
pink  roses.  Somebody  picked  them  up  and 
handed  them  to  her.  The  audience  applauded 
more  loudly  than  ever.  The  child  looked  so 
pretty  and  small  and  shy.  "  Tliese  flowers  are 
for  Joey,"  said  Bertha's  guilty  little  heart.  She 
formed  a  sudden  resolution.  She  walked  straight 
do\vn  to  the  footlights, 
holding  the  beautiful 
roses  in  her  hand.  The 
people  were  quiet  in- 
standy,  wondering  what 
could  be  coming  now. 
She  held  up  her  chin, 
as  the  actress  had  told 
her  to  do,  and  spoke 
high.  "  Please,"  she  said, 
"  please,  you  must  n't 
think  I  'm  Joey.  He  's 
liroken  his  leg  and  could 
not  come.  I  'm  only 
Bertha."  Then  she  grew 
terrified  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice,  speaking  alone 
in  that  great  place  to  so 
many  people,  and,  bur)-- 
ing  her  face  in  the  roses, 
ran  from  the  stage  in  a 
^  tumult  of  alarm  and  tears. 

When  Bertha  was 
dressed  in  her  own  clothes  again  and  ready  to 
go  home,  Richard  the  Third  came  to  her,  all 
dres-sed  in  his  ermine  as  he  was,  and  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  It  was  something 
to  remember  all  her  life,  if  only  Bertha  had 
known  it.  Then  he  hurried  back  to  his  duty, 
leaving  something  in  her  hand  that  Bertha  was 
then  too  excited  to  examine,  but  which  she  held. 
"  I  think  my  carriage  has  come,"  said  the 
actress  who  played  the  part  of  Lady  .\nne ; 
'T  'd  better  send  the  child  home  in  it." 

"  You  must  play  Joey's  part  till  he  is  well 
again,"  said  the  stage-manager.  Bertha  nodded. 
They  asked  her  where  she  lived,  told  the 
driver,  and  Bertha  was  put  in  among  the  warm 
cushions  of  the  carriage,  and  whirled  over  the 
streets  toward  her  home.     She  sat  quite  on  the 



edge  of  the  seat  in  her  trepidation,  and  held 
both  hands  close  shut,  one  around  the  roses  and 
the  other  around  the  great  man's  gift.  She  was 
afraid  the  driver  would  make  a  mistake  in  the 
house,  but  he  found  the  right  one,  and  when  she 
was  lifted  out  she  flew  up  the  steps  like  a  bird. 
The  door  was  open  and  Mamma  was  standing 
on  the  threshold,  looking  very  pale  and  anxious. 

"  Oh,  Bertha,  where  have  you  been  ?  "  But 
the  little  daughter's  bright  face  stopped  her 
with   the  sentence  half  spoken. 

"  Is  Joey  asleep  ?  "  whispered  Bertha;  and  as 
the  mother  shook  her  head,  the  httle  girl  could 
contain  herself  no  longer.     "Joey  !  Joey !  "  she 

cried,  springing  into  the  room,  "  I  played  it.  I 
said  all  your  words,  and  they  thought  I  was  you. 
But  I  told  them  I  was  n't.  And  a  little  girl 
ga^•e  me  the  flowers,  and  Richard  the  Third 
gave  me" — she  opened  her  hand  and  looked 
at  the  contents.  It  was  a  twenty-dollar  gold- 
piece.  It  might  ha\'e  been  a  penny  for  all 
Bertha  cared.  "  King  Richard  is  real  nice  off 
the  stage,  is  n't  he,  Joey?  Oh,  Mamma!  1 
hope  you  were  n't  very  frightened." 
"  Bertha,"  said  Joey,  "  you  're  a  brick  !  " 
"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  you  think  so !  "  she  said. 
Two  litde  tears  started  in  her  eyes.  ''  Mamma, 
I  'm  so  tired.     Won't  you  put  me  to  bed  ?  " 


{B^/orc  Christmas.) 

By  Malcolm  Douglas. 

DADDY  's  lost  the  job  he  had  a-drivin'  on  the  line. 
An'  so  he  's  took  to  carryin'  a  advertisin'-sign ; 
All  'at  he  's  a-makin'  now  is  fifty  cents  a  day, 
Walkin'  up  an'  down,  an'  givin'  little  bills  away. 

Daddy  he  tells  Mammy  'at  it  won't  be  long  afore 
He  fin's  anudder  job  at  sumpin  'at  '11  pay  him  more ; 
An'  Bess  an'  me  's  a-hopin'  'at  he  '11  git  it  soon,  a-cause 
It 's  putty  nearly  'bout  the  time  to  look  fur  Santy  Klaws ! 

I  'm  'mos'  eight  years  old,  an'  Bess  is  Htder  'an  me. 
An'  Mammy  's  been  a-promisin'  'at  we  could  have  a  tree 
Big  as  what  the  Dolans  had  las'  year  on  Chrisa-mus, 
An'  there  's  seven  little  Dolans,  an'  there  's  on'y  two  of  us  ! 

But  Mammy  now  is  worried  'bout  the  rent  a-comin'  on, 
An'  we  don't  drink  no  more  coffee,  an'  the  bag  o'  flour  's  gone ; 
An'  the  coal  'at  's  in  the  closet  is  a-gittin'  down  so  fast 
We  sif's  the  cinders  over  twict  to  try  an'  make  it  last. 

So  it  don't  much  look  as  if  a  tree  's  a-goin'  to  be  had, 

An'  we  've  stopped'  Mammy  'cause  it  on'y  makes  her  mad, 

An'  we  both  have  made  it  up  to  stop  a-plaguin'  Daddy  too 

Fur  centses  to  buy  candy  with,  jus'  like  we  used  to  do. 

But  we  keep  a-hopin'  to  oursel's  it  won't  be  alius  so. 
An'  a-prayin'  an'  a-prayin',  though  we  don't  let  Mammy  know. 
If  there  's  a  job  to  spare,  'at  Daddy  '11  git  it  right  away  — 
Sumpin'  'at  '11  bring  him  more  'an  fifty  cents  a  day ! 



By  Mabel  Loomis  Todd. 

A  wiDF.  window  in  my  little  house  lets  in  a 
great  many  beautiful  sights  through  the  day,  and 
all  the  year  it  fills  the  room  with  pleasantness. 

When  the  air  is  a  whirling  confusion  of  snow- 
flakes,  and  the  birches  standing  in  the  midst  of 
the  falling  snow  can  hardly  be  distinguished 
from  the  flying  whiteness,  as  well  as  when  the 
same  fairy  trees,  fluttering  their  dainty  leaves  in 
imperceptible  breezes,  quiver  in  the  August 
sunshine,  tliere  are  lovely  and  satisfying  pictures 
in  that  favored  room,  whether  snow-birds  flit  by, 
or  robins  and  song-sjiarrows. 

In  early  May,  the  outlines  of  the  trees  grow 
softer  against  the  sky  —  a  grayish  mist  enfolds 
each  little  branch  and  twig.  The  elms  and 
maples  dream  of  their  coming  foliage  —  not  far 
behind  such  gentle  prophecy.  Just  at  sunset, 
all  over  the  lawn  the  fresh  young  clovers  fold 
their  littie  green  hands,  and  bow  their  heads 
above  them  for  the  quiet  night — and  then  some- 
thing interesting  happens. 

While  the  sun  is  still  bright,  but  the  shadows, 
growing  longer,  stretch  the  gables  in  silhouette 
across  the  meadow,  suddenly  the  air  is  filled 
with  a  soft  flutter  of  wings,  and  a  sound  of  twit- 
tering falls  from  the  sky.  A  grand  procession 
of  swallows  vibrates  above  us,  sweeping  around 
in  a  great  circle,  so  swifdy  that  our  eyes  can  not 
follow  the  separate  flights.     Where  they  came 

from  wc  did  not  notice ;  but  a  moment  before 
the  blue  sky  was  clear,  and  now,  looking  black 
in  the  sunlight,  these  busy  little  visitors  float, 
shar]>ly  outlined,  against  that  airy  background. 

Around  and  around  they  sweep,  sometimes  in 
a  solid  mass  of  dark,  fluttering  wings  —  often 
scattered  far  apart  in  their  invisible,  circling 
track,  but  ever  around,  like  forest  leaves  blown 
wildly  by  November  gales.  They  keep  up  this 
mad  whirl  for  an  hour,  while  the  sunhght  grows 
less  and  less,  and  the  cool  dampness  brings  out 
the  sweet  odor  of  fresh  grass. 

Then  Millicent  and  I  sit  at  the  big  window, 
and  watch  for  what  may  happen  next. 

Near  us  stands  an  old  house  with  a  generous 
chimney  in  the  middle,  toward  which,  as  a  cen- 
ter, this  swinging  circle  gradually  contracts. 
The  tremulous  flutter  above  is  like  the  fall  of 
raindrops ;  but,  while  we  look,  the  wings  are 
frequently  spread  and  fixed,  here  and  there  a 
httle  bird  floats  smoothly  around  the  chimney- 
top,  only  to  flutter  onward  again  in  a  few 
seconds  still  more  swiftly,  as  the  wind  or  the 
notion  takes  him. 

Near  the  end  of  their  sunset  flying,  often  all 
the  swallows  reverse  their  direction,  suddenly 
doubling  backward,  until,  with  a  quick  "  order 
out  of  chaos,"  the  circle  is  re-formed  with  every 
bird  turned  the  other  way. 



Having  short,  stubby  tails,  they  lack  the 
grace  of  the  beautiful  bam-swallows ;  but  our 
deUght  in  these  fascinating  neighbors  is  not 
strictly  measured  by  length  of  tail. 

Finally  the  circle  grows  almost  confusingly 
small;  and,  as  we  look,  sLk — eight — ten — four- 
teen drop  quickly  into  the  capacious  chimney, 
while  the  rest  keep  on  in  their  dizzy  whirl  more 
madly  than  before.  One  or  two  pretend  to  go 
in,  fluttering  coquettishly  for  an  instant  at  the 
opening,  only  to  dash  off  again  into  the  free  air 
with  triumphant  energy.  A  Utde  steadying  of 
tiny  bodies  by  quivering  wings  for  the  descent, 
and  nine  more  plunge  in,  not  precisely  head- 
first, but  still  in  such  tumultuous  and  quick 
succession  that  MOhcent  wonders  how  all  can 
possibly  setde  comfortably  so  soon.  Then  fol- 
low six  more  ;  those  outside  still  flashing  through 
their  circle  as  if  intoxicated  wath  the  joy  of 
motion.  Group  after  group  pitches  in,  until  we 
imagine  that  the  whole  chimney  must  be  soUdly 
packed  with  them  ;  but  the  numbers  above  still 
fly  on,  to  all  appearance  undiminished. 

Twilight  grows  deeper;  MUlicent's  bromi 
eyes  are  heavy,  and  she  rests  her.  head 
against  my  shoulder  as  we  watch;  but  she 
wishes  to  wait  until  the  last  little  swallow  shall 
be  comfortably  tucked  into  his  sooty  bed  before 
she  goes  to  her  white  one. 

At  last  the  circling  procession  is  really  thin- 
ning. We  can  see  that  fewer  remain  outside, 
while  the  in-tumbling  groups  grow  more  fre- 

Fourteen — eighteen  —  twenty  now  dive  in  at 
once.  Finally  all  are  safely  stowed  away  but 
one,  which  flies  around  the  house  and  bams  for 
several  minutes  more,  as  if  searching  for  stray 
children  needing  care. 

The  sky  is  almost  dark  now,  but  very  soon 
against  the  ashes  of  western  brightness  this 
faithful  little  guardian  flutters  above  the  well- 
filled  chamber,  then,  hesitating  an  instant,  peace- 
fully drops  in,  and  only  the  piping  of  frogs  breaks 
the  silence  of  the  spring  evening. 

Would  it  not  be  entertaining  to  quietly  open 
that  chimney,  as  Audubon  opened  the  old  syca- 
more tree  in  Kentucky,  and  see  the  many  httle 
bodies  hanging  close  together  by  their  claws  — 
supported  as  well  by  their  sharp  tail-feathers 
—  upon  the  black  walls  ? 

In  former  years  these  swallows  always  occu- 
pied hollow  trees  and  other  natural  openings, 
hanging,  as  now,  methodically  side  by  side.  But 
they  choose,  in  these  days,  almost  exclusively, 
cliimneys  for  their  home,  building  their  nests  of 
twigs  cemented  by  saliva,  and  raising  two  broods 
of  young  each  season. 

E.xcept  when  it  rains,  this  performance,  which 
I  have  described  to  you,  goes  on  every  night. 
In  rainy  evenings  we  watch  for  them  in  vain. 
Perhaps  they  go  to  bed  very  early  in  the  after- 
noon —  at  all  events  they  have  no  sunset  pa- 
rade. But  night  after  night,  when  the  sky  is 
clear,  come  the  twittering,  and  the  fluttering, 
and  the  sweeping  circle  with  its  occasional  re- 
verse —  the  tumbling  into  the  chimney  in 
groups;  and  finally  the  lone  little  sentinel 
searching  the  quiet  evening  air. 

And  one  season  we  counted  them  every 
night  for  three  weeks  —  two  of  us  independ- 
ently writing  down  the  number  in  each  group 
as  it  went  in.  One  of  us  has  a  mathematical 
mind,  while  the  other  has  not ;  but,  nevertheless, 
the  two  results  came  out  within  twent)-  of  each 
other  every  time.  And  how  many  do  you  think 
there  were  ?  How  many  Uttle  bedfellows 
dropped  into  that  old  chimney,  while  a  silver- 
haired  couple  sat  alone  in  the  quaint  cottage 
rooms  below,  listening  to  the  birds'  shrill  good- 
nights  ? 

"  'Leven  or  seventeen,"  said  a  little  girl  who 
had  not  watched  them  -with  us,  but  who  was  in- 
terested in  guessing. 

"  Sixty  or  eighty,"  answered  an  older  friend. 

There  were  between  eight  hundred  and 
twenty,  and  eight  hundred  and  forty;  and 
Audubon  tells  even  more  surprising  tales  of 
the  niunber  of  birds  found  crowded  together. 




The  shrill  wind  blew  about  the  house 
And  through  the  pines  all  night    : 

The  whirled  across  the  fields 
And  hid  the  fence  from  sight  . 

By  dawn  the  drifts  had  blown  so  deep 
No  horse  nor  sleigh  could  go  : 

The  dog-house  and  the  chicken -coops 
Were  buried  in  the  snow  . 

There  was  no  thought  of  school  tha  t  day  ; 

We  worked  witn  shovels  all  , 
And  cleared  a  path  from  house  to  barn  ; 

The  snow  was  like  a  wall  . 

I  wished  our  house  was  covered  up , 
Like  that  one  in  the  book 

My  Grandma  showed  to  me  one  day 
Beside  the  chimney-nook  . 

The  story  said  the  chimney-pot 
Just  showed  above  the  snow  , 

And  all  day  long  the  lamps  were  lit 
Down  in  the  house  below  . 




Bv  Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson 

t/|Vi    '^1- 

■'IV   *. 


To-day  in  the  garden  I  heard  a  complaining, 
And  little  tears  dripping  as  if  it  were  raining. 
And  there  sat  a  Lady-bug 
S^^.^*^^- "i^  under  a  leaf, 

"*'"'■      ""^  With  a  Spider's-web  handker- 

chief, sobbing  with  grief! 
I  stopped  all  astonished  and 

asked  her,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 
And  she  said,  "  Little  Allie  's 
gone  off  on  a  visit 
For  six  weary  weeks,  and  oh !  how  shall  I 

bear  it ! 
The  sunshine  's  not  bright  without  Allie  to 
share  it." 

I  met    an    old    Crow   in    the   midst   of  the 

He  stood  on  one 
leg  like  a  sulky 
black  shadow, 
And  croaked  as 
he  stood  there, 
so  solemn  and 
"  Allie  is  gone  till 
the     first      of 
October !  " 
The    Bumble-bee   heard   it,  the   foolish  old 

How  Allie  was 
gone  for  the 
rest    of    the 
"  Six  weeks  with- 
out Allie !    I 
wish       they 
were  over !  " 
He       boomed 
out  his  grief 
in  the  depths 
of  the  clover. 
The  Wren  wiped  his  eye  with  the  tip  of  his 
Vol.  XVII.— 26. 

I   'd    rather   have   six   weeks   of  hard,    rainy 

weather !  " 
The  Rose  in  the  woods  told  her  buds  to  stop 

'  For  Allie  can't  see  them  and  what  's  the  use 

growing ! " 
There  was  also  a  Firefly,  young  and  romantic. 
When  he  heard  she  was  gone,  he  was  very 

near  frantic ; 
A-thinking       of 

Allie  he  sat  up 

all  night, 
And  wept  till  his 

tears      nearly 

put     out     his 


A  Butterfly,  too,  with 

some    gold     on     his 

When   he    heard  that  Allie 

had  gone  to  the  springs, 
Was  cross  as  a  griffin  for  half  of  an  hour. 
And  made  up  a  face  at  a  sweet  little  flower, 
A  dear  Httle  Lily  that  grew  in  the  valley. 
And  told  it,  it  was  not  so  pretty  as  Allie. 

Now,  there  was  a  green  Grasshopper  sat  in 

the  stubble, 
Sat  still  there  and  listened,  with  long  legs  bent 

And  when  all  the  creatures  had  finished  their 

She  set  off  a-hopping  without  ever  stumbling ; 
She  left  bugs 

and  birds,  W 

bees     and    x        i  f// 

blossoms      \Y(,!Mf'\: 

she      van 

"  I  '11  hop  till  I  find  her ! 

'-^W^-  ^ 




By  HtLiiN  Thayer  Hutcheson. 

.\RER  and  clearer  than  monarch  and  minister, 
Rabble  that  gabble  and  hypocnte  sinister, 
Warriors  and  sages  of  far-away  ages, 
Arc  the   Fools  that  flit  through  the  historical 

They  gazed  somewhat  dazed  .  a 

through    their    patches         r^^ 
and  i)owder,  ^     ^ 

I'hey   wondered    and    blundered    and    ever 

laughed  louder ; 
While  crown  tumbled  down,  and  while 

creed  flew  to  pieces,  j^ 

Their  range  was  the    change    of  their    daily 

While  savage  did  ravage  and  bigotry  tortured, 
They  rambled  or  gambled,  or  planted  an  orchard. 
They  clicked  the  light  heel  in  the  strathspey  and  reel. 
Built  castles,  held  wassails,  chased  moths,  and  played  tennis; 
Broke   the   lance   for   fair    France,   and   went 
masked  in  gay  Venice. 

They  spent  as  they  went,  and  were  reckless  of 

Bade  defiance  to  science,  and  scoffed    at   the 

Had  their  flings  at  their  kings,  and  were  pert  to 

the  proudest; 
Must  joke  if  they  spoke,  and  themselves  laughed 

the  loudest; 



Winking  and  wooing,  whatever  was  doing, 

Though  storms  of  reforms  and  rebelhons  were  brewing. 

Talking  and  mocking  the  age  that  they  grew  in, 

They  quaffed  the  gay  draught  round  the  red  fires  of  ruin. 

Smihng  and  sneering,  they  flit  out  of  hearing. 
They  bow  themselves  airily  out  of  our  pages ; 

No  sound  underground  of  their 
jesting  and  jeering, 
The   dear   litde    Fools  of 
the  far-away  ages  ! 



Can  marble  rest  heavy  on  all  that  gay  bevy, 

Who  parted  light-hearted,  and  knew  no  returning  ? 

Are  there  ghosts  full  of  laughter  that  haunt  the  hereafter, 
Too  mocking  for  bliss,  and  too  merry  for  burning  ? 

Remember  —  forget  them — it  never  will  fret  them, 

Who  gibed  at  misfortune  whenever  she  met  them ; 

At  joust  and  at  revel  cast  care  to  the  devil. 

And  lived  all  their  lives  on  whoever 
would  let  them. 

Concede  them  the  meed  that  is  due  the  departed  ! 

Slight  thinker,  deep  drinker,  lax  friend,  and  light  lover ; 

A  tear  not  too  tender,  for  they  were  light-hearted; 

A  laugh  not  too  loud,  for  their  laughter  is  over; 

A  prayer  light  as  air  for  the  dead  and  gone  Fools, 

Too  light  and  too  slight  to  be  tyrants  or  tools ! 

Who  with  jest  and  with  zest  took  the  world  as  they  found  it ; 

Perhaps  they  did  best  just  by  dancing  around  it ! 



Bv  Helen  Thavek  Hutcheson. 

Servian  hearths  the  Christmas  fire 
Did  slowly  molder  and  expire. 
In  Servian  hearts  there  glowed  a  flame 
N'o  time  shall  (juench,  no  tyrants  tame. 

Through  royal  Petersburg  the  Czar 
Rode  in  his  slow,  triumphal  car ; 
The  Christmas  bells  rang  loud  and  sweet 
Before  the  Liberator's  feet. 

At  liutharest.  where  snow  lay  white 
Beneath  the  friendly  veil  of  night, 
Was  ushered  in,  \vith  captive  state, 
The  vanquished  of  the  Czar  and  fate 

His  brow  was  stern  —  on  Plevna's  plain 
The  snow  fell  fast  upon  the  slain, 
The  Prophet's  standards  fled  to  sea; 
Roumania  —  Sersia  —  they  are  free! 

Roumania's  daughter,  unaw^are, 
Had  caught  the  glance  of  stem  despair ; 
She  smiled  on  him  with  childish  grace. 
The  vanquished  tyrant  of  her  race  ; 

[This  poem  recounts  an  incident  at  the  time  of  the  Russian  victory  which  hberated  Christian  Servia  and  Rou- 
mania from  Moslem  rule.  Osman  Pasha  commanded  the  Turks  in  the  defense  of  Plevna  during  the  war  between 
Russia  and  Turkey.  Though  Plevna  was  taken,  he  had  shown  himself  so  brave  and  skillful  as  to  win  the  admi- 
ration even  of  his  enemies.  While  Osman  was  a  prisoner,  and  on  his  way  through  Bucharest,  the  capital  of 
Roumania,  a  little  Roumanian  girl,  touched  by  his  dejected  expression,  ran  forward  and  placed  a  flower  in  the  hand 
of  the  defeated  general.  ] 



For  comfort  in  this  bitter  hour 
She  laid  within  his  hand  a  flower ; 
The  captive's  eyes  with  tears  were  dim, 
He  kissed  the  lips  that  smiled  on  him. 


Sweet  pledge  of  peace,  and  debt  confessed 
Between  oppressor  and  oppressed  ! 
An  echo  thrilling  Moslem  pride : 
■  Good-will  to  men  at  Christmas-tide." 

The  Crescent  wanes  —  the  Star  ascends  — 
The  reign  of  force  and  terror  ends ; 
And  love  hath  overcome  the  sword 
Upon  the  Birthday  of  the  Lord. 


A    KING    IN    EGYPT. 

Bv  Helkn  Thayer  Hutcheson. 

I  THINK  I  lie  by  the  lingering  Nile, 
I  think  I  am  one  that  has  lain  long  while, 
My  lips  sealed  up  in  a  solemn  smile, 
In  the  lazy  land  of  the  loitering  Nile. 

I  think  I  lie  in  the  Pyramid, 
And  the  darkness  weighs  on  the  closed  eyelid, 
And  the  air  is  heavy  where  I  am  hid, 
With  the  stone  on  stone  of  the  Pyramid. 

I  think  there  are  graven  godhoods  grim, 
That  look  from  the  walls  of  my  chamber  dim, 
And  the  hampered  hand  and  the  muffled  limb 
Lie  fixed  in  the  spell  of  their  gazes  grim. 

I  think  I  lie  in  a  languor  vast, 
Xumb,  dumb  soul  in  a  body  fast, 
Waiting  long  as  the  world  shall  last. 
Lying  cast  in  a  languor  vast 

Lying  muffled  in  fold  on  fold, 
With  the  gum  and  the  gold  and  the  spice  enrolled. 
And  the  grain  of  a  year  that  is  old,  old,  old, 
Wound  around  in  the  fine-spun  fold. 

The  sunshine  of  Eg)'pt  is  on  my  tomb ; 
I  feel  it  warming  the  srill,  thick  gloom. 
Warming  and  waking  an  old  perfume. 
Through  the  carven  honors  upon  my  tomb. 

The  old  sunshine  of  Egypt  is  on  the  stone ; 
And  the  sands  lie  red  that  the  wind  hath  sown. 
And  the  lean,  lithe  lizard  at  play  alone 
SHdes  like  a  shadow  across  the  stone. 

And  I  lie  with  the  Pyramid  over  my  head, 
I  am  Ipng  dead,  lying  long,  long  dead, 
With  my  days  all  done,  and  my  words  all  said, 
And  the  deeds  of  my  days  written  over  my  head. 


Many  of  our  readers  will  have  noticed,  in  the 
volume  of  St.  Nicholas  for  the  past  year,  sev- 
eral poems  signed  by  a  new  name,  that  of  Helen 
Thayer  Hutcheson.  In  the  preceding  pages 
of  this  number,  we  print  four  more  by  the  same 
author.  The  sixteen  poems  published  up  to 
this  date  reveal  so  remarkable  a  talent,  and 
show  so  unusual  a  range,  that  we  desire  to  call 
the  attention  of  our  readers  (and  especially,  per- 
haps, that  of  our  older  readers)  to  work,  the  fine- 
ness of  which  might  not  receive  its  due  appre- 
ciation in  the  haste  of  ordinary  reading. 

These  poems  were  written  by  a  young  girl, 
whose  short  life  was  most  uneventful,  and 
whose  experiences  were  bounded  by  the  small 
circle  of  a  quiet  home.  Verses  like  "A  Christ- 
mas Letter,"  "  To-day  in  the  Garden,"  "  A 
Wee  World  of  My  Own,"  or  "  Discovered " 
are,  perhaps,  only  the  light  singing  of  a  happy 
heart.  But  it  is  singing  in  perfect  harmony  with 
the  tune  set  by  the  winds  and  waters,  and  the 
trill  of  birds.  "  The  Song  of  the  Caged  Canary  " 
shows  a  more  finished  art,  and  is  rich  with  the 
warmth  of  color  and  sweetness  of  sound  that 
fill  ••  the  land  sun-haunted."  "  The  Days  of  the 
Daisies,"  again,  fairly  dances  down  the  page,  in 
the  airiest,  gayest,  most  fantastical  measure,  so 
that  one  has  but  to  close  one's  eyes  to  see  myri- 
ads of  white  and  gold  heads  nodding  and  sway- 
ing to  the  pipe  of  the  wind,  and  to  smell  the 
warm  earth  of  the  June  meadows.  "  The  Last 
Cricket"  is,  with  its  playful  pathos,  a  dainty 
little  bit  of  melody,  still  different  in  character- 
istics. But  of  the  poems  in  this  January  number 
of  St.  Nicholas,  two — "A  King  in  Egypt," 
and  "The  Fools' Waltz  " — are  so  unusual  and  of 
so  high  merit,  that  they  are,  doubtless,  the  young 
poet's  latest  and  most  considered  work.  Full 
of  simplicity,  truth,  and  imagination,  showing  an 
increasing  mastery  of  form  and  a  growing  sense 
of  the  beauty  and  capacity  of  English  song,  these 
poems  justify  our  belief  that  had  Helen  Hutch- 
eson Hved  she  would  have  taken  acknowledged 
rank  with  the  leading  poets  of  the  time. 

Yet  so  unconscious  of  exceptional  powers  was 

she  that  it  seems  never  to  have  occurred  to  her 
to  print  her  poems ;  and  it  was  only  after  she 
had  passed  beyond  the  sound  of  the  world's 
praise,  that  the  world  knew  what  high  praise  she 
had  deserved.  After  her  death  the  loving  friends 
who  had  kept  all  her  manuscripts  since  her 
earliest  childhood  were  persuaded  to  allow  these 
poems  to  be  printed ;  and  to  meet  a  natural  de- 
sire that  something  might  be  known  of  the  life 
of  the  young  poet,  one  who  dearly  cherishes  her 
memory  has  kindly  furnished  the  following  brief 
but  sympathetic  sketch. — Editor  St.  Nicholas. 

Near  a  pretty  village  of  the  West,  on  a  gentle 
slope  overlooking  a  river  where  sparkling  waters 
shimmer  through  the  foliage  of  over-arching 
trees,  stands  a  many-gabled  cottage  —  the 
birthplace  and  early  home  of  Helen  Thayer. 

Lovely  scenery,  groves  full  of  wild  birds, 
gardens,  domestic  pets,  story-books,  and  loving 
parents  formed  a  happy  little  world  in  which 
her  young  spirit,  like  a  tender  bud,  began  a 
growth  that  afterward  blossomed  into  rare 
sweetness  and  beauty. 

In  her  early  childhood,  with  her  fairy-like 
form,  golden-brown  curls,  and  delicate  face 
brimming  with  life  and  intelligence,  she  seemed 
some  ethereal  being  from  a  brighter  realm. 

Before  the  pleasant  paths  of  learning  opened 
to  her,  she  amused  herself  as  an  only  child 
may  who  is  left  much  to  its  own  resources. 
She  added  to  her  play-houses  whole  menager- 
ies of  animals  which  she  cut  out  of  card-paper ; 
dressed  up  her  kittens  like  little  old  ladies ; 
taught  pet  grasshoppers  to  walk  a  tight  rope 
stretched  above  the  window  sill ;  and  rocked 
her  dolls  to  lullabies  of  her  own  composing. 
She  was,  in  truth,  a  little  improvisatrice,  and 
often  walked  the  floor  chanting  original  stories 
in  verse,  unheard  and  unnoticed,  as  she 

A  few  years  later,  her  surroundings  had 
changed,  and  she  was  far  away  from  the  cot- 
tage where  she  was  bom.  In  her  new  home 
in  the  environs  of  Washington,  her  young  soul 



continually  grew  in  the  love  of  the  good,  the 
true,  and  the  beautiful.  She  was  always  the 
brave  champion  of  the  weak  and  oppressed  ; 
ready  to  bestow  her  dearest  possession  on  any 
child  less  fortunate  than  herself,  and  tenderly 
humane  toward  every  helpless,  sufiering  thing, 
bird,  beast,  or  insect.  With  an  artist's  hand 
and  a  ])oet's  soul,  amid  ordinary  childish  em- 
ployments, every  day  brought  forth  some  new 



device  or  fancy,  in  picture  or  verse.  Logical 
withal,  and  possessing  a  rare  gift  of  language, 
she  often  amused  and  interested  her  elders 
with  her  apt  reasonings  on  the  more  serious 
questions  of  life. 

Her  parents,  finding  the  excitement  of  school 
life  injurious,  decided  that  most  of  her  educa- 
tion must  be  carried  on  under  the  home  roof — 
especially  as  the  national  capital  with  its  vast 
library  and  other  public  institutions  furnished 
unusual  facilities  for  self-culture. 

Living  ^■ery  much  in  the  seclusion  of  her 
suburban  home,  close  to  the  wild-wood,  ram- 
bling or  driving  over  hill  and  dale,  peering  into 
hidden  nooks,  and  learning  the   sweet  secrets 

of  nature,  it  is  not  strange  that  she  found  that 
"  Wee  World  "  of  her  own,  or  discovered  the 
•■  pale-tinted  blossoms  that  nobody  knew,  saving 
the  wind  and  the  sun  and  the  dew." 

i\Liny  poems  written  between  the  ages  of  ten 
and  fifteen  show  that  life  passed  happily,  rich 
in  bright  fancies,  and  pleasantly  divided  between 
study  and  recreation. 

Helen  Thayer  composed  verses  almost  from 
her  babyhood,  "  making  them  up,"  indeed,  before 
her  small  hands  had  learned  how  to  write  down 
the  |)leasant  fancies  that  came  into  the  little 
curly  head.  Even  these  childish  verses  showed 
how  full  of  sunshine  was  her  life  and  how  much 
she  lived  in  a  land  of  her  own  fancies.  But  by 
the  time  she  was  twelve,  her  poetry  began  to 
indicate  that  it  was  the  work  of  a  true  poet. 
For  a  poet  is  a  maker  of  beautiful  realities  in 
the  world  of  imagination,  which  prosaic  peoi)le 
would  never  be  able  to  see  for  themselves,  but 
which  they  are  glad  of,  and  much  the  richer  for, 
when  the  poet  has  ])resented  them. 

Soon  came  high  anfl  pure  friendships  to  en- 
large and  brighten  her  young  world  ;  especially 
the  love  of  one  whom  she  delighted  to  call 
"  sister,"  and  whose  charming  little  family  was 
the  source  of  many  an  inspiration.  To  see  her 
the  center  of  that  lovely  group  with  her  slight 
figure,  fair  young  face,  and  shining  hair  —  her 
fingers  deftly  weaving  "  daisy  chains  "  or  trac- 
ing humorous  sketches  —  her  young  auditors 
entranced  with  the  words  that  fell  from  her 
lips —  was  to  see  a  picture  not  easily  forgotten. 

A  young  friend,  pure  and  sweet  like  herself, 
speaks  of  her  as  "  one  who  lived  among  the 
flowers  of  the  wild-wood,  one  with  them,  in- 
teq^reting  their  beauty  and  sweetness  into  pic- 
tures and  language  —  traces,"  she  adds,  "of  the 
sojourning  among  us  of  a  fair  spirit  passed  for- 
ever beyond  the  perishable." 

She  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-six.  And 
her  sweet  life  brightened  to  its  close,  for  the  halo 
of  a  love  rare  and  tender,  doing  homage  to  her 
womanhood,  tinged  all  her  sky  with  rose  color, 
which  never  darkened,  but  merged  into  the 
light  of  Heaven,  whose  glory  she  entered  on  the 
morning  of  April  29,  1886. 


By  Edmund  Alton. 

Seventh   Paper  *  Union  may  deal  directly,  through  their  execu- 
tives or  other  officers,  with  one  another;  but 

FOREIGN  INTERCOURSE.  they  have .  no  standing,  as  independent  sover- 
eignties, before  the  nations  of  the   earth.     In 

The  sovereign  relations  between  empires  of  matters  international,  their  poUtical  influence  is 

the  past  led  to  the  early  recognition  of  certain  unknown ;  the  authority  of  the   Republic  has 

general  rules  of  right  which  have  come  down  to  then  full  sway.t     An   American  abroad  flour- 

the  nations  of  to-day  with  the  supreme  force  ishes  his  passport  as  "  a  citizen  of  the  United 

and   dignity  of  established   public   law.     The  States." 

authority    of    every     government    is    absolute  Following  time-honored  and  universal  fashion, 

within  its  own  dominions,  and  as  far  as  a  can-  we  have,  located  in  various  parts  of  the  world, 

non-shot  from  shore.     The  ocean  is  free  to  all.  numerous  agents  who,  under  the  direction  of  the 

Our  rights  at  home  and  on  the  high  seas  rest  Secretary  of  State,  keep  watch  on  foreign  matters 

not  upon  mere  international  courtesy  and  con-  of  interest  to  our  people — nearly  all  of  the  foreign 

sent,   but   upon   principles    of  natural   reason,  powers  thus  recognized  reciprocating  by  send- 

sanctioned  by  centuries  of  observance.      The  ing  to  the  United  States  (as,  also,  to  other  coun- 

privileges  enjoyed  by  the  United  States  beyond  tries  with  whom    they  have    commercial    and 

the  seas,  and  accorded  to  its  citizens  sojourning  political  intercourse)  similar  representatives  for 

in  foreign  lands, —  Uke  those  e.xtended  by  us,  in  like  purposes.     These  agents  are  divided  into 

turn,  to  other  powers, —  are  such  as  belong  to  two  branches, —  the  diplomatic  service  and  the 

every  people  under  the  same  unwritten  "  Law  of  consular  service, —  each  with  distinct  functions. 

Nations,"  or  as  are  expressly  secured  by  written  The  diplomatic  agents  reside  at  the  capitals  of 

covenants   between  our  Government  and  the  nations  and  constitute  "  embassies,"  or  "  lega- 

govemments  concerned.  tions  " ;  the  various  embassies,  or  legations,  of 

To  the  Federal  Power,  as  remarked  in  the  different  states  collected  at  any  capital  consdtut- 

first  chapter  of  this  series,  has  been  confided  the  ing  the  "  Diplomatic    Corps "    at    that   place, 

exclusive  care  and  conduct  of  these  foreign  in-  They  are  missionaries  from  state  to  state.     They 

terests.     In  their  domestic  relations,  and  within  represent  their  respective  countries  as  political 

the  limits  of  the  Constitution,  the  States  of  the  sovereignties,   and   carry   to   their   posts    their 

*  For  the  sixth  paper  of  this  series  (which  dealt  with  the  organization  of  the  State  Department),  see  St.  Nicholas 
fur  April,  18S9. 

t  "  No  State  shall  enter  into  any  treaty,  alliance,  or  confederation  "  ;  and,  "  No  State  shall,  without  the  consent 
of  the  Congress  .  .  .  enter  into  any  agreement  or  compact  with  another  State  or  with  a  foreign  power,  or  engage 
in  war,  unless  actually  invaded,  or  in  such  imminent  danger  as  will  not  admit  of  delays." — (Constitution,  Article 
I.,  Section  X.)  This  distinction  between  State  and  Federal  authority  is  illustrated  in  the  matter  of  fugitives  from 
justice.  "  A  person  charged  in  any  State  with  treason,  felony,  or  other  crime,  who  shall  flee  from  justice  and  be 
found  in  another  State,  shall,  on  demand  of  the  executive  authority  of  the  State  from  which  he  fled,  be  delivered 
up,  to  be  removed  to  the  State  ha^'ing  jurisdiction  of  the  crime." — (Constitution,  Article  IV.,  Section  II.)  In  sucha 
case,  the  demand  is  made  directly  by  the  authorities  of  one  State  upon  the  authorities  of  the  other.  But  where  a 
person  fleeing  from  the  vengeance  of  a  State  takes  refuge  in  a  foreign  country,  the  State  appeals  to  the  State  De- 
partment of  the  United  States,  which  thereupon  makes  demand  for  the  surrender  of  the  fugitive.  These  matters 
are  provided  for  in  what  are  known  as  our  "  extradition  treaties  "  with  other  nations,  which  vary  as  to  the  classes  of 
crimes  for  which  persons  may  be  extradited  ;  although,  in  certain  instances,  from  sentiments  of  international  comity, 
fugitives  have  been  surrendered  by  foreign  governments,  upon  our  demand,  in  the  absence  of  any  treaty  provision 
covering  the  particular  cases. 

Vol.  XVII.— 27.  •  233 




national  credentials,  or  "  letters  of  credence," 
certifymg  to  their  official  character,  and  re- 
questing that  full  faith  and  credit  be  given  to 
their  words  when  speaking  for  the  government 
they  represent.  They  hold  direct  corrununica- 
tion  with  the  government  to  which  they  are 
accredited,  and  it  is  their  office  to  cultivate  in- 
ternational friendship,  to  negotiate  treaties,  and 
to  adjust  international  disputes  that  may  arise. 

The  consular  officers,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
stationed  at  numerous  ports  and  other  business 
centers  abroad,  and  have  no  official  deaUngs  (ex- 
cept in  special  circumstances)  with  the  sovereign 
power  of  the  country  wherein  they  reside.  They 
represent  their  countrymen  regarded  as  individ- 
uals and  not  as  a  political  sovereignty, —  looking 
after  commercial  interests  and  individual  rights 
and  leaving  to  the  diplomatic  agents  of  their 
government  all  questions  of  state. 

Under  rules  formally  agreed  upon  by  the 
powers  of  Europe,  at  the  International  Con- 
gresses of  Vienna  and  Aix  la  Chapelle  (held  in  the 
early  part  of  the  present  century),  and  adopted 
by  the  Government  of  the  United  States,  diplo- 
matic agents  are  divided  into  four  classes:  (i) 
ambassadors,  legates,  or  nuncios;  (2)  envoys, 
ministers,  or  other  persons  accredited  to  sov- 
ereigns ;  (3)  ministers  resident ;  and  (4)  charges 
d'affaires  accredited  to  ministers  for  foreign 
affairs.  Ambassadors,  legates,  and  nuncios 
possess  what  is  styled  the  "  representative " 
character.  They  are  supposed  to  represent  the 
person  of  the  prince  by  whom  they  are  sent, 
and  as  such  to  be  entitled  to  hold  direct  per- 
sonal audience  \vith  the  sovereign  to  whom  they 
are  accredited.  Our  Government  neither  sends 
nor  receives  diplomats  of  this  grade.  Legates 
and  nuncios  represent  the  Pope,  with  whom  we 
have  no  political  relations,  and  who  therefore 
has  no  agent  at  AVashington ;  and  as  we  have 
not  seen  fit  to  attach  the  title  of  ambassador  to 
any  of  the  representatives  sent  out  by  us,  we 
have  been  honored  with  no  ambassadors  from 
other  states.  In  point  of  fact,  this  representa- 
tive distinction  is  of  little  practical  value  so  far 
as  it  confers  the  privilege  of  direct  approach  to 
the  throne,  for  diplomatic  business  is  transacted 
nowadays  through  the  Foreign  Office  of  every 
leading  government  and  not  through  personal 
audiences  vnih  the  sovereign  head.      Sdll,  it 

humors  the  vanity  of  a  diplomat  to  be  called 
ambassador ;  the  title  gives  him  precedence  on 
ceremonial  occasions,  and  at  some  capitals  it 
gives  him  precedence  in  securing  audience  with 
the  minister  for  foreign  affairs.  The  United 
States,  in  its  treatment  of  the  Diplomatic  Corps 
at  Washington,  disregards  the  question  of  tide 
in  matters  of  business.  The  ministers  take  rank 
in  the  diplomatic  body  according  to  the  order 
in  which  they  arrive  at  the  Seat  of  Govern- 
ment and  present  their  credentials,  and  as  to 
interviews  with  the  Secretary  of  State  they 
are  admitted  to  the  audience-room  in  the 
order  in  which  they  reach  the  Department  and 
present  their  cards  on  "  Diplomatic  Day."  A 
similar  rule  as  to  audiences  is  recognized  at  St. 
Petersburg,  Berlin,  and  elsewhere,  but  the  fact 
that  it  is  not  universally  observed  places  our 
representatives  occasionally  at  a  disadvantage. 
In  some  countries  a  minister  of  the  United 
States  may  wait  for  hours  in  the  anteroom  of  the 
Foreign  Office  to  gain  an  interview  on  some 
state  matter  of  the  liveliest  importance ;  and  at 
the  very  last  moment,  when  those  outranking 
him  in  title  have  come  and  gone  and  he  is  about 
to  take  his  turn,  the  representative  of  some  insig- 
nificant Asiatic  power,  who  has  just  arrived  with 
no  other  object  perhaps  than  to  exchange  a  few 
idle  w-ords  with  the  minister  for  foreign  affairs, 
goes  in  ahead,  simply  because  he  is  styled 
"  ambassador,"  and  the  representative  of  the 
great  American  Republic  may  have  the  door  of 
the  audience-room  closed  in  his  face  for  the  day. 
This  consideration  has  been  the  strong  plea  of 
those  who  urge  that  our  diplomatic  representa- 
tives to  the  great  powers  should  be  given  loftier 
titles,  to  put  them  on  a  business  equality  with 
other  legations  at  the  same  courts. 

Our  diplomatic  ser\'ice  to-day,  numbering 
upward  of  sixty  men  (not  counting  ordinary  em- 
ployees in  the  service  of  legations),  consists  of  en- 
voys extraordinary  and  ministers  plenipotentiary 
(a  compound  title),  ministers  resident,  charges 
d'affaires,  secretaries  of  legation,  and  inter- 
preters ;  w'ith  now  and  then  an  officer  detailed 
from  the  War  or  Navy  Department  and  attached 
to  a  legation  as  military  or  naval  attache, 
for  the  purpose  of  studying  and  reporting  to 
this  Government  the  militar)'  movements  of 
foreign  powers.     It  also  includes  a  diplomatic 


"American  secretary,"  two  "translators  and 
attaches,"  six  "  attaches,"  and  two  "  mihtary 
attaches," — the  minister  being  accredited  to 
Spain  and  to  Peru  as  well  as  to  the  United 
States.  Japan  is  represented  there  by  an  envoy 
extraordinary  and  minister  plenipotentiary,  a  sec- 
retary, counselor,  attache,  naval  attache,  and 

Besides  envoys  extraordinary  and  ministers 
plenipotentiary,  and  one  or  more  secretaries 
each,  Spain  has  two  civil  attaches,  Russia  a 
technical  attache,  Great  Britain  a  civil  attache 
and  a  naval  attache,  and  Germany  a  chancellor 
and  assistant  chancellor.  Turkey  has  an  envoy 
extraordinary  and  minister  plenipotentiary,  and  a 
secretary  of  legation ;  and  (passing  the  represen- 
tarives  of  other  countries  without  comment) 
even  Corea,  as  above  noted,  sends  a  complete 
force  headed  by  a  minister  of  high  rank  —  an 
envoy  extraordinary  and  minister  plenipoten- 
tiary, known  on  the  register  of  the  State  Depart- 
ment as  Pak  Chung  Yang ;  a  "second  secretary," 
now  acting  as  "  charge  d'affaires  ad  interim"  Mr. 
Ye  Ha  Yung;  another  "  second  secretary,"  Mr. 
Ye  Sang  Jay;  an  "attache,"  Mr.  Kang  Chin 
He,  and  a  "foreign  secretary." 

The  consular  service  of  the  United  States 
numbers  upward  of  a  thousand  men,  classified 
as  agents  and  consuls-general,  consuls-general, 
vice-consuls-general,  deputy  consuls-general, 
consuls,  vice-consuls,  deputy  consuls,  commer- 
cial agents,  vice-commercial  agents,  deputy 
commercial  agents,  consular  agents,  consular 
clerks,  interpreters,  marshals,  and  clerks  at  con- 
sulates.* Consuls-general,  consuls,  and  com- 
mercial agents  are  full,  principal,  and  permanent 
consular  officers  (the  title  of  commercial  agent 
being  peculiar  to  our  system),  as  distinguished 
from  deputy  consuls  and  consular  agents,  who 
are  subordinate  officers,  and  vice-consuls  and 
vice-commercial  agents,  who  are  consular  offi- 
cers substituted  temporarily  to  fill  the  places  of 
consuls-general,  consuls,  or  commercial  agents 
during  the  absence  of  their  principals.  A 
consul-general  is  charged  with  the  ordinary 
duties  of  a  consul  within  the  limits  of  his  dis- 
trict, and  with  the  supervision  of  the  consulates 

*  In  addition  to  these,  there  are  guards,  prison-keepers,  and  minor  employees.  The  term  "  consular  officer," 
as  used  by  Congress,  includes  "  consuls-general,  consuls,  commercial  agents,  deputy  consuls,  vice-consuls,  vice- 
commercial  agents,  and  consular  agents,  and  none  others." 

agent  at  Cairo,  with  the  title  of  "  agent  and 
consul-general."  The  position  of  Egypt  as  a 
semi-independent  power  prevents  us  from  estab- 
lishing a  legation  there ;  but  as  we  have  diplo- 
matic relations  with  that  country  to  a  limited 
extent,  we  employ  the  term  "  agent "  for  what- 
ever it  may  be  worth ;  it  is  not  recognized  in 
European  diplomacy.  A  representative  to  an 
independent  sovereignty  should  have  a  tide 
known  to  the  rules  laid  down  at  the  Congresses 
of  Vienna  and  Aix  la  Chapelle. 

It  is  the  privilege  of  every  government  to 
decide  for  itself  in  fixing  the  grade  of  its 
representatives  regardless  of  the  importance 
or  unimportance  of  the  mission,  but  ordinary 
courtesy  would  prevent  us  from  sending  an 
ambassador  to  Seoul  and  only  a  charge  d'affaires 
to  Berlin.  Among  the  great  powers  com- 
pliments are  even.  They  give  what  they  are 
given  in  the  way  of  chief  diplomatic  officers. 
Small  powers,  while  equal  to  the  mightiest  in 
point  of  law,  are  not  so  fastidious.  The  head 
of  our  legation  at  Berlin  is  an  envoy  extraor- 
dinary and  minister  plenipotentiary ;  the  chief 
representative  of  Germany,  at  Washington,  is 
also  an  envoy  extraordinary  and  minister 
plenipotentiary.  We  send  to  Seoul  a  minister 
resident  and  consul-general ;  Corea,  however, 
outdoes  us  in  style  by  sending  to  Washington 
a  representative  of  the  second  grade. 

At  Berlin  we  have,  besides  an  envoy  extraor- 
dinary and  minister  plenipotentiary,  a  secre- 
tary of  legation,  and  a  second  secretary  of 
legation;  the  same  is  true  of  our  legations  at 
London,  Paris,  Peking,  and  Tokei,  the  last  two 
posts  being  further  re-enforced  by  an  interpreter 
each.  At  each  of  the  several  posts  of  St. 
Petersburg,  Vienna,  Madrid,  Constantinople, 
Buenos  Ayres,  Rome,  Mexico,  Rio  de  Janeiro, 
Lima,  Bogota,  Santiago,  and  Caracas,  we  are 
represented  by  an  envoy  extraordinary  and  min- 
ister plenipotentiary  and  a  secretary  of  lega- 
tion ;  the  legation  at  Constantinople  having 
also  an    interpreter. 

The  Chinese  legation  at  Washington  embraces 
an  envoy  extraordinary  and  minister  plenipoten- 
tiary, a  "  first  secretary,"  two  "  secretaries,"  an 



and  commercial  agencies  subordinate  to  him, 
so  far  as  that  supervision  can  be  exercised 
by  correspondence.  At  present,  we  have  con- 
sulates-general at  .Vpia,  Athens,  Bangkok,  Bel- 
grade, Berlin,  Berne,  Bogota,  Bucharest,  Cairo, 
Calcutta,  Constantinople,  Copenhagen,  Frank- 
fort-on-the-Main,  Guatemala,  Guayaquil,  Hali- 
fax, Havana,  Honolulu,  Kanagawa,  La  Paz, 
Lisbon,  London,  Matamoros,  Melbourne,  Mex- 
ico, Monrovia,  Montreal,  Ottawa,  Panama, 
Paris,  Port-au-Prince,  Rio  de  Janeiro,  Rome, 
Seoul,  Shanghai,  Saint  Petersburg,  Teheran,  and 
Vienna.  But  to  locate  all  the  other  posts  in 
our  consular  system  would  be  to  send  my  read- 
ers on  a  geographical  hunt  through  the  four 
quarters  of  the  globe.  We  have  a  consul  at 
Liverpool  and  another  at  Hong-Kong;  consuls 
at  Belfast,  Havre,  Antwerp,  Bremen,  Munich, 
Trieste,  and  Bagdad, —  others  at  Rosario,  Co- 
quimbo,  Helsingfors,  Muscat,  Gor^e-Dakar,  Pa- 
ramaribo, Tegucigalpa,  and  Padang.  We  have 
commercial  ageftts  at  Castelamare,  Reichenberg, 
and  Butaritari,  and  also  at  Levuka,  Boma,  and 
Gaboon.  We  have  consular  agents  at  Alexan- 
dretta,  Moulmein,  Pago-pago,  Arica,  and  Fiume, 
at  Dyrefjord  and  at  Pugwash,  at  Lanzarote, 
Laraiche,  Terceira,  Latakia,  .\cajuila,  and  Wau- 
baushene,  at  Akyab,  Mansourah,  Ritzebiittel, 
Hodeida,  Corcubion,  Bucaramanga,  Bani-saf, 
Saffi,  Scjerabaya,  and  Tai-wanfoo,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  such  places  as  Assioot,  Bassein,  Iloilo, 
Llanelly,  Rostoff,  Majonga,  Richibucto,  and 
Penang ! 

Great  Britain  has  a  consul-general  residing 
at  New  York,  and  consuls,  vice-consuls,  and 
other  consular  officers  at  New  York,  Baltimore, 
New  Orleans,  Boston,  San  Francisco,  Galveston, 
Richmond,  Eastport,  Chicago,  St.  Paul,  Eureka, 
Denver,  San  Diego,  Mobile,  and  other  places 
within  the  United  States.  And  at  the  same  or 
different  American  ports  and  inland  cities,  we 
find  consular  officials  of  var)ing  grades,  in  the 
service  of  France,  Germany,  Russia,  Turkey, 
China,  and  other  powers,  including  a  consul- 
general  of  the  Orange  Free  States  stationed  at 

Philadelphia  and  a  consul  of  the  principality  of 
Monaco  located  at  New  York. 

Without  attempting  to  go  over,  by  name,  the 
various  countries  with  whom  we  exchange  diplo- 
matic or  consular  officers,  it  may  be  said,  gener- 
ally, that  the  interests  of  the  people  of  the  United 
States,  as  a  j3olitical  sovereignt)'  and  as  individ- 
uals, are  represented,  in  one  way  or  the  other,  at 
all  the  principal  capitals  and  trade  centers  of  the 
world,  and  that  all  the  principal  foreign  states, 
civilized,  half-civilized,  and  barbaric,  are  repre- 
sented here.  The  exchange,  however,  is  not 
entirely  uniform  or  reciprocal.  We  send,  for 
instance,  no  diplomatic  agent  to  the  Barbary 
States ;  but  our  riglits  are  guarded  by  a  consul 
and  a  vice-consul  at  Tangiers,  and  by  seven  con- 
sular agents  at  seven  other  towns  within  that 
region.  The  Barbary  States,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  not  represented  in  the  United  States ;  the 
same  is  true  of  Madagascar,  to  whom  we  send 
several  consular  officials,  and  of  Egypt  and  Rou- 
mania,  to  whom  we  send  both  diplomatic  and 
consular  representatives.  Bolivia,  Honduras, 
Liberia,  Paraguay,  Salvador,  Santo  Domingo, 
Servia,  Siam,  and  Uruguay  have  only  consular 
officials  in  the  United  States,  whereas  we  have 
both  classes  of  representatives  within  those 
realms.  But  these  and  other  discrepancies  may 
be  accounted  for  by  the  special  political  or  busi- 
ness relations  of  the  countries  involved.  Canada, 
of  course,  Uke  other  provinces  of  Great  Britain, 
looks  to  the  Imperial  Goxemment  for  the  pro- 
tection of  her  interests  here;  and  while  our 
consular  service  stretches  through  British  Amer- 
ica, and  British  India,  and  AustraUa,  and  through 
other  parts  of  Britain's  vast  dependencies  and 
possessions,  in  the  negotiation  of  treaties  or  set- 
tlement of  international  conflicts  relating  to  any 
of  those  lands  the  diplomatic  authorities  at 
\Vashington  and  London,  representing  the  two 
high  sovereign  states,  alone  have  power  to  act. 
And  so  in  our  intercourse  with  other  communi- 
ries  and  dominions,  save  where  treaty  provisions 
or  exceptional  conditions  may  modify  the  gen- 
eral rule. 

(To  be  continued.) 


By  W.  T.  Bull. 

LTHOUGH  numerous  arti- 
cles have  been  written  on  the 
game  of  foot-ball,  as  played 
at  our  colleges  at  the  present 
time,  the  subject  has  invari- 
ably been  treated  generally, 
and  no  one  particular  feature, 
important  as  it  may  be,  has  ever  been  accorded 
any  special  attention. 

The  drop-kick  is,  of  all  the  different  features, 
by  far  the  most  important  and  telling  factor, 
when  employed  by  an  experienced  player ;  but 
when  attempted  by  a  novice,  it  becomes  at 
once  dangerous  and  demoralizing  to  the  rest  of 
the  players,  to  the  rush  line  in  particular. 

The  instances  on  record  are  numerous  where 
the  drop-kick  has  saved  the  day,  or,  at.  least, 
contributed  largely  to  victory.  What  better 
proof  of  the  above  assertion  could  be  had  than 
the  story  of  the  Yale-Harvard  game  played  in 
1880  at  Cambridge?  The  score  was  a  tie, 
neither  side  having  been  able  to  secure  the  lead, 
when,  at  the  close  of  the  last  half,  just  a  moment 
before  time  was  called,  Mr.  Camp  secured  a  goal 
from  the  field  by  means  of  the  drop-kick.  Will 
the  Yale  team  of  '87  ever  forget  the  assurance 
and  general  "  We-have-got-the-game-sure  "  man- 
ner of  the  Harvard  team  as  they  disported 
themselves  on  the  eve  of  the  great  battle  ?  Can 
they  ever  recall  without  shuddering  how  the 
Harvard  men  came  on  the  field  that  day,  and, 
with  a  manner  confident  in  the  extreme,  forced 
the  Yale  team  into  their  own  territory  and  in 
close  pro.ximity  to  their  goal  ?  But  how  quickly 
was  the  tide  of  battle  changed,  and  this  same 
spirit  of  confidence  broken,  when  a  goal  from 
the  field  placed  Yale  in  the  lead  by  5  points! 
Harvard  made  but  one  rally  after  that,  and  the 
effort  was  vain. 

Other  instances  might  be  cited,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, when,  in  '84,  Moffatt,  of  Princeton,  kicked 
a  goal  from  nearly  the  center  of  the  field,  but 

they  would  be  mere  repetitions,  and  it  is  inter- 
esting to  inquire  more  particularly  into  this  most 
efiicient  factor. 

In  the  first  place,  what  is  a  drop-kick  ?  The 
person  making  the  try,  drops  the  ball  and  kicks 
it  after,  or  at  the  very  instant,  it  strikes  the 
ground.  Simple  as  it  seems,  few  people  out- 
side of  immediate  college  circles  could  explain 
it  understandingly.  This  unfamiliarity  with  so 
elementary  a  point  is  surprising  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  foot-ball  has  become  one  of  the  most 
popular  of  American  games. 

There  are  various  ways  of  making  the  kick, 
but  they  vary  essentially  in  two  particulars  only  : 
the  part  of  the  foot  used  in  kicking,  and  the 

FlGLfRE    I. 

position  which  the  ball  is  made  to  assume  on 
striking  the  ground.  Of  these  different  ways, 
three  have  been  chosen  as  having  proved  emi- 


nently  successful  in  championship  games,  and, 
as  able  exponents  of  each,  might  be  cited, 
Camp  of  Yale,  Moffatt  of  Princeton,  and  Wat- 
kinson,  now  deceased,  who  was  one  of  Yale's 
famous  players. 

Camp's  style  of  kick,  as  illustrated  in  Fig.  i, 
taken  just  before  the  ball  is  dropped,  was  to 
hold  the  ball  in  the  right  hand,  turn  his  left  side 
toward  the  goal,  and,  with  a  side  swing  of  the 
right  foot,  plant  the  toe  on  the  middle  seam  of 
the  ball  directly  below  the  lacings.  This  style 
of  kick  has  its  advantages  in  that  a  greater 
swing  of  the  leg  can  be  attained,  thus  adding 
greater  force ;  but  the  mere  fact  of  his  holding 
the  ball  in  one  hand  clearly  shows,  that,  to  be- 
come accurate  in  this  style,  one  would  have  to 



FIGURE    2. 

devote  more  time  and  practice  to  this  than  to 
the  others,  where  the  left  hand  aids  to  keep  the 
ball  in  the  proper  position. 

Moffatt  held  the  ball  in  two  hands  in  front 

of  him,  faced  the  goal,  and  dropped  the  ball 
with  the  upper  end  canted  toward  him  at  an 
angle,  varying  with  the  distance  he  intended 
to  cover.  (Fig.  2.)  This  style  is  both  sure  and 
quick,  and  diflers  from  Watkinson's  style  in  one 
point  only  —  the  ball  as  held  by  the  latter  being 
canted  in  exacdy  the  opposite  direction,  and 
pointed  directly  for  the  goal. 

Watkinson's  style,  being  much  more  famihar 
to  me,  will  be  explained  more  in  detail.  The 
ball  is  held  in  the  fingers  and  thumb  (both 
extended)  of  the  right  hand, —  as  in  Fig.  3, — 
the  left  hand  being  placed  on  the  upper  and 
left  side  of  the  ball.  The  ball  being  thus  held, 
the  arms  are  extended  fonvard  and  downward, 
while  the  ball  is  pointed,  or  sighted  as  it  were, 
by  the  left  hand.  At  the  same  time  the  trunk 
of  the  body  is  bent  slightly  forward,  and  the 
left  leg  is  planted  a  little  in  advance  of  the 
right,  so  that  it  sustains,  to  a  great  extent,  the 
weight  of  the  body.  The  ball  is  then  dropped, 
and  at  the  same  instant  the  right  leg  is  drawn 
back,  poised  for  one  instant  in  the  air,  and  then 
brought  with  a  steady  swing  forcibly  forward, 
meeting  the  ball  at  the  moment  it  touches  the 
ground,  the  trunk  of  the  body  at  the  same  time 
being  thrown  back,  turning  on  the  hips,  thus 
adding  greater  force  to  the  kick. 

An  example  of  kicking  the  ball  with  the  side 
of  the  foot  is  best  illustrated  by  citing  Terry  of 
Yale,  who  has  a  very  novel  way,  quite  his  own, 
that  he  has  employed  with  success,  when  very 
near  the  goal,  about  on  the  ten-yard  line  for 
example.  He  takes  a  position,  as  in  Fig.  4, 
has  the  ball  passed  very  low,  receives  it  in  his 
hands,  arms  extended  forward  at  full  length, 
and  with  a  shoveling  motion  of  the  right  foot, 
which  scrapes  along  the  ground,  he  scoops  up 
(not  kicks)  the  ball  with  the  side  of  his  foot. 

A  cool  head,  quickness  in  kicking  the  ball, 
and  dodging  an  opponent  before  kicking  are 
indispensable  adjuncts  to  success.  It  is  easy 
to  see,  that  for  a  man  to  stand  facing  eleven 
opponents  not  twenty  yards  away,  upon  whose 
faces  are  clearly  portrayed  a  dogged  determina- 
tion either  to  block  the  ball  or  upset  him, 
must  require  a  cool  head  and  the  power  to  con- 
centrate all  his  thoughts  and  energies  on  the 
ball  about  to  be  put  in  play.  He  can  not  do 
two  things  at  the  same  time.     Watching  the 



ball  and  the  men  too,  generally  results  in  an 
ignominious  muff, — a  most  dangerous  accident, 
for,  with  only  one  man  to  back  him  up,  prac- 
tically a  clear  field  is  left  for  the  opposing  side  to 

ens  a  man's  natural  ability  to  dodge.  It  very 
often  happens  that  his  opponents  reach  him 
just  about  the  time  the  ball  does,  so  that  it  is 
quite  necessary,  before  making  the  try,  to  dodge 
one  or  more  of  them.  This  dodging  before 
kicking,  of  course,  makes  the  kick  more  uncer- 
tain. Yet  a  reasonable  amount  of  accuracy 
may  be  acquired  by  constant  practice. 

A  player,  who  tries  for  goals  from  the  field, 
should  combine  three  essential  qualities :  good 
judgment  as  to  the  right  rime  to  kick  and  the 
distance  to  be  covered,  quickness  in  getting 
the  ball  away  after  it  has  been  received  from 
the  quarter-back,  and,  finally,  ability  to  dodge 
an  opponent  before  making  the  try.  This  last 
point  is  quite  necessary  to  success,  for  an  oppo- 
nent is  pretty  sure  to  get  through,  on  one  side 
or  the  other,  to  intercept  the  kick.  Therefore, 
it  is  important,  in  practicing  the  drop-kick,  to 
have  a  man  stand  in  front  of  the  kicker,  and, 
as  the  kick  is  made,  block  it  if  possible.  Within 
the  twenty-five-yard  line  where,  in  the  man's 
judgment,  a  try  for  goal  would  be  the  right  play, 
it  is  well  to  give  the  signal  immediately  after  the 
second  down,  and  in  two  cases  out  of  three, 
unless  tlie  signal  be  known,  the  opponents  will 

score  a  brilliant  run.  The  necessity  of  quick- 
ness in  kicking  is  aptly  illustrated  in  the  case  of 
a  certain  noted  player.  Probably  there  are  few, 
if  any,  players  in  the  country,  at  the  present 
time,  who  would  compare  favorably  with  him 
in  a  contest  for  accuracy  and  long-distance 
kicking;  with,  however,  the  proviso  that  an 
indefinite  amount  of  time  be  allowed  in  which 
to  kick  the  ball.  But,  in  a  game,  this  remark- 
able aptitude  comes  to  naught ;  and,  without 
disparagement  to  him,  his  non-success  in  games 
should  be  attributed  not  to  inability  or  igno- 
rance, but  to  that  most  unfortunate  of  habits 
into  which  players  fall  in  pracrice, —  taking 
their  time  about  kicking  the  ball.  Surely,  if  a 
man  accustoms  himself  in  daily  pracrice  to  take 
plenty  of  time  to  direct  the  ball,  arrange  or  plant 
himself,  and  watch  his  opponents  at  the  same 
rime,  he  can  not  expect  to  go  into  a  game  and 
do  exactly  the  opposite  and  srill  hope  for  suc- 
cess. Either  his  kick  will  be  blocked,  or  the 
ball  will  go  wide  of  the  mark.  This  bad  habit 
of  taking  so  much  unnecessary  time  also  dead- 

be  taken  unawares,  will  not  be  prepared  for  such 
a  play,  and  consequently  will  not  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  prevent  it.  Thus  the  kicker  has  a  free 
field,  and  generally  can  take  plenty  of  time  to 



assure  the  proper  accurac)-  and  success  of  the 
kick.  It  is  much  the  safer  way  to  catch  the  ball 
in  the  arms,  rather  than  in  the  hands,  unless 
one  has,  by  constant  practice,  acquired  the  lat- 
ter method.  Undoubtedly,  from  a  scientific 
standpoint,  the  latter  is  the  better  way,  because 
time  is  saved  by  it;  a  most  important  advantage, 
for  a  ball  received  in  the  hands  may  be  dropjied 
immediately,  but,  being  caught  in  the  arms, 
must  be  transferred  to  the  hands  first.  Begin- 
ners, therefore,  would  do  well  to  learn  to  catch 
in  the  hands.  A  very  common  mistake  made 
by  players,  who  recei\e  the  ball  direcdy  in  the 
hands,  is  to  shift  their  hands,  and  the  ball  too, 
in  the  endeavor  to  get  it  in  the  proper  position 
for  dropping.  ."Ml  this  shifting  is  unnecessary, 
and  wastes  valuable  time,  so  that  in  two  cases  out 
of  three  the  outcome  is  that  the  ball  is  blocked. 

A  simjjle  movement  of  the  arms  alone,  and  a 
gentle  turn  of  the  ball  in  the  right  direction,  as 
it  is  dropped,  is  all  that  is  required,  and  not  an 
instant  of  time  is  wasted.  One  great  secret  of 
success  is  to  droj)  the  ball  in  exactly  the  posi- 
tion in  wliich  it  is  held  by  the  hands.  Both 
hands  should  be  taken  from  the  ball  at  the  same 
time,  for  one  can  easily  see  that  if  either  were 
taken  off  first  the  ball  would  be  likely  to  tij)  to 
one  side  and  thus  destroy  the  aim.  The  ball 
should  be  kicked  the  instant  it  touches  the 
ground  without  waiting  till  it  is  in  the  air, 
otherwise  much  of  the  force  of  the  kick  will  be 

By  constant  jjractice  every  man  should  be- 
come able  to  use  the  left  foot  as  well  as  the 
right.  Especially  is  ability  to  kick  with  either 
foot  necessary  when  very  near  the  goal.  Such 
an  attainment  not  only  saves  time  by  allowing  the 
use  of  the  left  foot  for  kicks  on  the  left  of  the  goal, 
and  vice  versa,  but  it  bothers  the  opponents. 
For  example,  a  right  tackle  breaks  through, 
and  makes  directly  for  the  kicker.  In  this  case 
the  use  of  the  right  foot  enables  a  man  to  kick 
without  moving  from  his  position,  providing  the 
ball  comes  all  right  and  in  time ;  but  in  the  use 
of  the  left  foot,  there  is  a  possibility  of  kicking 

direcdy  into  the  tackle.  Thus  a  man  who 
could  use  only  his  left  foot  would  be  forced  to 
dodge  the  tackle  first,  and  thus  in  a  measure 
lose  the  accuracy  of  his  aim,  as  well  as  valu- 
able time. 

The  kicker  should  be  the  man  to  gi\e  the 
signal  for  the  drop,  and  he  should  be  careful 
to  give  it  before  the  team  has  lined-up,  thus 
affording  each  man  plenty  of  time  to  think  about 
his  special  line  of  action,  and  enabling  him  to 
act  upon  that  line  promptly.  For  example, 
suppose  the  right  half-back  is  to  give  the  sig- 
nal. In  this  case,  the  back  takes  a  position  a 
little  in  the  rear  and  to  one  side  of  him  for  the 
purpose  of  dropping  on  the  ball,  should  the  pass 
be  a  bad  one,  or  be  muffed,  or  the  l)all  be  kicked 
into  an  opponent.  The  left  half-back  goes  up 
into  the  rush  line,  and  generally  takes,  as  the 
man  for  him  to  block,  an  opposing  half-back, 
or  the  quarter-back ;  the  quarter-back,  after 
passing  the  ball,  takes  the  first  man  he  sees 
who  has  no  one  to  oppose  him.  Generally  this 
man  will  be  one  of  the  backs,  or  the  quarter- 
back. But  these  different  positions  should  never 
be  taken  until  the  ball  is  snapped  by  the  center, 
otherwise  the  opponents  will  surely  anticipate 
the  play  about  to  be  attempted,  and  i)robably 
spoil  it. 

It  should  not  be  supposed  for  a  moment, 
however,  that  just  because  the  signal  for  a  kick 
has  been  given,  a  man  is  in  duty  bound  to  make 
the  try,  for  oftentimes  a  rare  opportunity  will 
offer  itself  for  a  run  around  the  ends.  Then, 
too,  the  ball  may  come  badly,  the  opponents  be 
too  close,  or  a  dozen  other  contingencies  arise, 
which  forbid  the  kick.  It  is  the  abihty  to  judge 
of  all  these  circumstances  that  makes  the  suc- 
cessful kicker,  and  the  indifference  to  them  the 
unsuccessful  one. 

A  man,  then,  who  devotes  his  time  and  atten- 
tion to  the  thorough  master)-  of  drop-kicking, 
becomes  not  only  a  sought-after  player,  but  also 
one  who,  more  frequently  than  any  other,  has 
at  his  very  feet  the  opportunity  of  securing 
victory  for  his  side. 



By  Walter  Camp. 


If  there  be  anything  that  might  make  a 
momentary  ripple  upon  the  steady,  resistless 
stream  of  New  York  life  it  should  certainly  be 
one  of  these  foot-ball  games.  While  there  are 
plenty  of  base-ball  enthusiasts,  they  possess  their 
souls  and  their  enthusiasm  in  patience  before 
they  reach,  and  after  they  leave,  the  grounds. 
But  the  collegian  has  no  sense  of  repression, 
and  his  enthusiasm  annually  stirs  up  the  sober, 
sedate  dignity  of  Fifth  Avenue  from  the  Bruns- 
wick to  the  Park.  A  few  years  ago  the  wise- 
acres said :  "  No  one  will  come  to  a  game  on 
Thanksgiving  Day.  New  Yorkers  will  never 
give  up  their  annual  dinner  for  anything  under 
the  sun."  At  the  latest  game  played  on  that  day 
fifteen  thousand  people  postponed  their  annual 
dinner  to  see  the  Yale- Harvard  match.  Perhaps 
nothing  will  better  illustrate  the  pitch  to  which 
the  interest  has  attained  than  to  take  the  ride 
to  the  grounds,  first  with  the  spectators  then 
with  the  team.  Coaches  have  been  bringing 
as  high  as  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars 
apiece  for  the  day,  and  even  at  that  price  are 
Vol.  XVII.— 28.  2-1 

engaged  weeks  before  the  contest.  Stages  are 
resorted  to.  The  old  'bus  appears  in  rejuven- 
ated habiliments,  bedecked  with  great  streamers 
of  partisan  colors,  and  freighted  with  the  eager 
sympathizers  of  the  red  or  the  blue.  Long 
before  noon,  tally-hos  draw  up  before  the  up- 
town hotels  and  are  soon  bearing  jolly  parties 
out  to  the  grounds,  in  order  to  make  sure  of 
a  place  close  to  the  ropes.  The  corridors  of 
the  Fifth  Avenue,  Hoffman,  and  Windsor  have 
for  twelve  hours  been  crowded  by  college  boys 
eagerly  discussing  the  prospects  of  the  rival 
teams.  Any  word  from  the  fortunate  ones  who 
are  permitted  to  visit  the  teams  is  seized  and 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  as  eagerly  as 
if  upon  the  outcome  of  the  match  hung  the 
fate  of  nations.  The  condition  of  Jones's  ankle 
is  fraught  with  the  utmost  interest,  and  all  the 
boys  heave  sighs  of  relief  at  hearing  that  he  will 
be  able  to  play. 

Having  talked  over  the  state  of  affairs  all  the 
evening,  and  until  noon  of  the  momentous  day, 
each  boy  is  thoroughly  primed  to  tell  his  sister 




(and  particularly  his  chum's  sister)  all  about 
every  individual  member  of  his  own  team,  as 
well  as  to  throw  in  the  latest  gossip  concerning 
the  opponents.  He  is  frequently  interrupted 
in  this  conversation  held  on  the  top  of  the 
coach,  by  the  necessity  of  slopping  to  cheer 
some  house  where  his  colors  are  displayed  in 
the  windows,  or  to  salute  some  passing  tally-ho 
from  which  the  similarly  colored  ribbons  dangle 
and  banners  wave. 

Arrived   on   the  grounds,    the    coaches   are 

Having  followed  the  spectators  out,  and  seen 
them  safely  and  advantageously  placed,  let  us 
ride  back  and  return  with  one  of  the  teams.  We 
find  the  men  (who  have  been  confined  all  the 
morning  between  four  walls  in  order  to  prevent 
their  talking  over  the  chances,  and  thus  becom- 
ing anxious  and  excited)  just  finishing  their 
luncheon.  They  eat  but  little,  as,  in  spite  of  their 
assumed  coolness,  there  is  no  player  who  is  not 
more  or  less  ner\'ous  over  the  result.  Hurriedly 
leaving  the  table,  they  go  to  their  rooms  and  put 


drawn  up  in  line,  and  while  an.xiously  awaiting 
the  advent  of  the  two  teams,  the  appearance 
of  each  crimson  or  blue  flag  becomes  an  excuse 
for  another  three  times  three.  And  how  smartly 
the  boys  execute  their  cheers !  The  Yale  crj' 
is  sharper  and  more  aggressive,  but  the  Harvard 
boys  get  more  force  and  volume  into  theirs. 
The  fair  faces  of  the  girls  are  as  flushed  with 
excitement  as  are  those  of  the  men,  and  their 
hearts  no  less  in  the  cheering. 

on  their  uniforms.  One  after  another  they 
assemble  in  the  Captain's  room,  and,  if  one 
might  judge  from  the  appearances  of  their  can- 
vas jackets  and  begrimed  trousers,  they  are 
not  a  set  of  men  to  fear  a  few  tumbles.  Finally 
they  all  have  appeared,  the  last  stragglers  still 
engaged  in  lacing  up  their  jackets.  The  Cap- 
tain then  says  a  few  words  of  caution  or  encour- 
agement to  them,  as  he  thinks  best.  He  is  evi- 
dently in  dead  earnest,  and  so  are  they,  for  you 



might  hear  a  pin  drop  as  he  talks  in  a  low  voice 
of  the  necessity  of  each  man's  rendering  a  good 
account  of  himself.  Thoughtfully  they  file  out  of 
the  room,  troop  dowTi  the  stairs,  and  out  through 
the  side  entrance  where  the  coach  is  waiting 
for  them.  Then  the  drive  to  the  grounds, — 
very  different  from  the  noisy,  boisterous  one 
we  have  just  taken  with  the  admirers  of  these 
same  men.  Hardly  a  word  is  spoken  after 
the  first  few  moments,  and  one  fairly  feels  the 
atmosphere  of  determination  settling  down  upon 
them  as  they  bowl  along  through  the  Park. 
Every  man  has  his  own  thoughts  and  keeps 
them  to  himself,  for  they  have  long  ago  dis- 
cussed their  rivals,  and  each  man  has  mentally 
made  a  comparison  between  himself  and  the 
man  he  is  to  face,  until  there  is  little  left  to 
say.  Now  they  leave  the  Park  and  rumble  up 
to  the  big  north  gate  of  the  Polo  Grounds.  As 
the\-  crawl  leisurely  through  the  press  of  car- 
riages, everything  makes  way  for  them,  and  the 
people  in  line  for  tickets  stare  at  the  coach  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  players.  They  are  soon  in,  and 
jumping  out  at  the  dressing-rooms,  run  in  and 
throw  off  outside  coats,  still  keeping  on  the 
heavy  sweaters.  Now  comes  a  slight  uneasy 
delay,  as  it  is  not  yet  quite  time  to  go  out  on 
the  field  lest  their  rivals  keep  them  waiting  there 
too  long  in  the  chill  air.  This  is  in  truth  the 
mauvais  quart  d'heure  of  the  foot-ball  player, 
for  the  men's  nerves  are  strung  to  a  high  pitch. 
Perhaps  some  one  begins  to  discuss  a  play  or  the 
signals,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  players  are  in 
a  fair  way  to  become  thoroughly  mixed,  when 
the  Captain  utters  a  brief  but  expressive,  "  Shut 
up  there,  will  you  ?  "  and  growls  out  something 
about  all  knowing  the  signals  well  enough  if 
they  '11  quit  discussing  them.  A  short  silence 
follows,  and  then  they  receive  the  word  to  come 
out.  As  they  approach  the  great  black  mass 
of  people  and  carriages  surrounding  the  ground, 
they  feel  the  pleasant  stimulus  of  the  crisp  fresh 
air,  and  their  hearts  begin  to  swell  within  them 
as  they  really  scent  the  battle.  Just  as  they 
break  through  the  crowd  into  the  open  field,  a 
tremendous  cheer  goes  up  from  the  throats  of 
their  friends,  and  the  eager  desire  seizes  them 
to  dash  in  and  perform  some  unusual  deed  of 
skill  and  strength. 

The   Polo    Grounds  have  fallen  before    the 


advance  of  city  streets.  That  old  inclosure,  the 
scene  of  some  most  exciting  college  contests, 
will  never  again  resound  with  the  mad  cheer 
of  enthusiastic  spectators,  but  there  will  be 
handed  down  to  boys  coming  after,  the  mem- 
ory and  stoiy  of  some  grand  old  games,  and 
there  will  always  be  a  touch  in  common  among 
the  old  players  who  saw  service  on  those 

The  Costume  and  Training. 

The  old-fashioned  woolen  jersey  has  given 
place,  in  great  measure,  to  the  less  comfortable 
but  more  serviceable  canvas  jacket.  This 
change  was  first  made  by  a  team  of  Trinity 
College,  of  Hartford.  There  had  been  a  few 
rumors  afloat  to  the  effect  that  there  was  a  new 
foot-ball  garment,  made  of  canvas,  which  ren- 
dered it  almost  impossible  to  catch  or  hold  the 
wearer.  No  one  at  the  other  colleges  had  paid 
much  attention  to 
this  report,  and  it 
was  not  until  the 
Trinity  team  stepped 
out  of  their  dressing- 
rooms  at  Hamilton 
Park  that  the  Yale 
men  first  saw  the 
new  canvas  jackets. 
Strange  enough  they 
appeared  in  those 
early  days,  too,  as 
the  Trinity  eleven 
marched  out  on  the 
field  in  their  white 
jackets  laced  up  in 
front.  It  gave  them 
quite  a  military  air, 
for  the  jackets  were 
cut  in  the  bobtail 
fashion  of  the  cadets. 
The  men  in  blue 
looked  contemptuously  down  upon  the  innova- 
tion upon  the  regulation  jersey,  and  it  was  not 
until  they  had  played  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  and 
had  had  many  Trinity  players  slip  easily  through 
their  fingers,  that  they  were  ready  to  admit  that 
there  was  some  virtue  in  the  jacket.  The  Trin- 
ity men,  bound  to  give  the  new  costume  a  fair 





trial,  had  brought  some  grease  out  with  them, 
and  each  jacket  had  been  thoroughly  besmeared. 
They  were  therefore  as  difficult  to  grasp  as  eels, 
and  it  was  not  until  the  Vale  men  had  counter- 
acted tliis  by  grasping  great  handfuls  of  sand 
that  they  were  able  to  do  anything  like  suc- 
cessful tackling.  This,  then,  was  the  beginning 
of  the  canvas  jacket,  and  although  the  greas- 
ing process  was  not  continued  (in  fact,  it  was 
stopped  by  the  insertion  of  a  rule  forbidding  it), 
the  jacket  itself  was  a  true  improvement,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  all  the  teams  were  wearing 
them.  The  superiority  of  the  canvas  jacket  over 
the  jersey  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  gives  much  less 
hold  for  the  fingers  of  the  tackier,  and  also  that 
it  does  not  keep  stretching  until  it  offers  an  easy 
grasp,  as  does  the  jersey. 

The  next  article  of  the  foot-baller's  costume 
which  demanded  jjarticular  attention  was  the 
shoe.  Probably,  in  spite  of  all  the  trials  and 
the  great  exercise  of  inventive  faculty  bestowed 
upon  the  sole  of  a  foot-ball  man's  shoe,  there  is 
to-day  no  better  device  for  all  fields  and  all 
weathers  than  the  straight  cross-leather  strips 
which  were  used  in  the  first  year  of  the  sport. 
They  are  shown  in  diagram  I  of  the  accom- 
panying cut.  One  of  the  earliest  plans  was  to 
lay  out  these  strips  in  various  dift'erent  lines 
across  the  sole  in  order  to  j)resent  an  edge,  no 
matter  in  what  direction  the  foot  was  turned. 
This  gave  rise  to  as  many  styles  as  there  were 
men  on  a  team.  The  cuts  show  a  few  of  these 
(diagrams  II,  III,  IV). 

Rubber  soles  were  also  tried,  but  they  proved 
heavy,  and  when  the  ground  was  wet  they  did 
not  catch  as  well  as  the  leather  strips.  We  have 
not  yet  seen  a  trial  made  of  the  felt  soles  which 
are  now  used  in  tennis,  but  these  probably 
would  not  answer  for  kicking,  as  they  would 
not  be  sufficiently  stiff. 

The  trousers  also  have  quite  a  historj-.  At 
first,  several  of  the  teams  wore  woven  knicker- 
bockers made  of  the  same  material  as  the 
jersey.  These  fitted  them  tight  to  the  skin, 
and,  although  they  ottered  very  little  obstruction 
to  the  freedom  of  a  man's  gait,  they  neither  were 
things  of  beauty  nor  did  they  prove  much  of  a 
joy  to  the  wearers,  for  when  a  hole  was  once 
started  it  spread  most  amazingly.  Another 
serious  feature  was  that  when  a  game  was  played 

on  frozen  ground  every  tumble  and  slide  left  its 
mark  not  only  on  the  trousers,  but  also  on  the 
j)layer's  skin  beneath,  as  these  trunks  offered 
almost  no  protection.  The  ne.xt  remove  from 
these  "  tights,"  as  they  were  expressively  called, 
was  to  flannel  knickerbockers.  These  prevailed 
for  a  season,  but  they  were  not  stout  enough  for 
the  rough  work  of  the  game,  and  many  a  youth 
has  needlessly  enlisted  the  sympathy  of  the  ten- 
der hearts  in  the  audience,  when  his  comrades 
gathered  about  him  and  bore  him  from  the  field, 
only,  however,  to  reappear  again — such  a  plucky 
young  man  !  —  in  a  few  moments.  Some  of  the 
more  knowing  ones  noticed  that  the  trousers  worn 
by  the  young  man  on  his  second  apjjcarance  were 
not  the  same  as  those  in  which  he  began  the 
game.  Corduroy  was  tried  with  no  better  re- 
sults than  flannel.  The  most  approved  cloth 
now  in  use  among  the  players  is  a  sort  of  heavy 
fustian,  and  even  these  are  thickly  padded  at 
the  knees  and  along  the  sides  of  the  thighs. 

The  caps  ran  through  a  series  of  changes  from 
a  little  skull-cap  to  the  long-tasseled  affair  called 
a  toboggan  toque.  Tiie  only  really  serviceable 
innovation  was  a  cap  with  a  broad  visor,  to  be 
worn  by  the  backs  and  half-backs  when  facing 
the  sun.  The  stockings  are  thicker  than  the)- 
used  to  be,  but  otherwise  there  has  been  no 
change.  The  foot-ball  player  of  to-day  puts  on 
a  suit  of  flannels  underneath  his  uniform,  and  if 
his  canvas  jacket  is  a  little  loose  or  the  day  cold, 
he  wears  a  jersey  next  the  jacket  on  the  inside. 

His  shoes  are  of  stout  leather  with  straight 
strips  across  the  soles  ;  and,  if  they  have  become 
a  litde  stretched  from  constant  use,  an  extra  pair 

of  socks  underneath  the  woolen  ones  gives  his 
feet  a  more  comfortable  feeling. 

He  is  better  dressed  to  avoid  bruises  than  the 
old-time  player,  but  the  canvas  jacket  is  hard  to 
play  in,  and  such  men  as  the  quarter-back,  who 
have  Httle  opportunity  to  make  runs  but  much 





stooping  to  do,  still  cling  to  the  jersey.  The 
back  also  can  dispense  with  the  canvas  jacket 
if  he  finds  it  very  irksome,  but  as  a  rule  every 
one  but  the  quarter  is  better  dressed  for  service 
if  in  canvas  rather  than  a  jersey. 

To  come  to  the  more 
particular  points  of  the 
diet  and  exercise  suitable 
for  a  foot-ball  player. 
Long  experience  has 
shown  that  men  who  are 
training  for  this  sport 
must  not  be  brought 
down  too  fine.  The}' 
should  be  undertrained 
rather  than  overtrained. 
The  reason  for  this  is 
that  an  overtrained  man 
becomes  too  delicate  for 
the    rough,    hard    work 

and  percepribl)-  loses  his  vigor  after  a  few  sharp 
struggles.  The  season  of  the  year  is  favorable 
to  good  work,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  keep  men 
in  shape.  They  should  be  given  a  hearty  break- 
fast of  the  regulation  steaks,  chops,  stale  bread  ; 
nor  will  a  cup  of  coffee  hurt  a  man  who  has  always 
been  in  the  habit  of  having  it.  Fruit  also  can  be 
had  in  the  early  part  of  the  season,  and  it  is  an 
excellent  thing  to  begin  the  breakfast.  About 
ten  or  eleven  o'clock  the  men  should  practice  for 
a  half  hour  or  so.  The  rushers  should  be  made 
to  pass  the  ball,  fall  on  it  when  it  is  rolling 
along  the  ground,  catch  short  high  kicks.  They 
should  also  be  put  through  some  of  their  plays 
by  signal.  The  half-backs  and  back  practice 
punting  and  drop-kicking,  not  failing  to  do  some 
place-kicking  as  well.  The  quarter-back  should 
pass  the  ball  for  them  and  also  do  some  passing 
on  his  own  account  in  order  to  increase  the  ra- 
jjidity  of  his  throwing  as  well  as  the  distance  to 
which  he  can  pass  the  ball.  The  half-backs  and 
back  should  be  made  to  take  all  the  fly  catching 
they  have  time  for,  and  it  is  best  to  have  some 
one  running  toward  them  while  they  are  per- 
forming the  catch,  that  they  may  become  ac- 
customed to  it.  A  very  light  lunch  should  be 
served  at  about  one  o'clock.  It  should  consist 
of  cold  meats,  toast,  warm  potatoes,  eggs  if 
agreeable ;  in  fact,  no  great  restriction  should  be 

placed  upon  the  appetite  of  the  men  at  any  of 
the  meals  except  where  certain  things  manifestly 
disagree  wath  certain  individuals.  Nothing  very 
hearty  should  be  given  them  at  noon,  however. 
At  half-past  two — or,  better,  at   three  —  they 


should  Start  for  the  grounds  and  then  play 
against  a  scrub  team  for  an  hour  and  a  half. 
When  they  have  had  their  baths,  and  been  well 
rubbed  down,  it  is  about  five  o'clock,  and  in  an 
hour  from  that  time  they  will  eat  more  dinner 
than  any  other  set  of  men  in  training.  No  al- 
coholic beverages  are  permissible  except  for  par- 
ticular cases,  as,  for  a  man  who  is  getting  too 
"  fine  "  a  little  ale  is  not  out  of  the  way  and 
may  give  him  a  better  appetite  and  better  night's 
rest.  Plenty  of  sleep  is  indispensable.  One 
other  feature  should  be  mentioned,  which  is, 
that  as  the  rule  for  foot-ball  games  is  "  play, 
rain  or  shine,"  a  team  must  practice  in  bad 
weather.  Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  one 
would  naturally  predict  colds  for  the  men  from 
practice  in  the  rain,  experience  teaches  quite 
the  opposite.  A  cold  is  almost  unheard  of,  and 
when  it  does  occur  is  always  traceable  directly 
to  some  foolish  exposure  after  the  playing  is 
over ;  as,  for  instance,  remaining  in  the  wet 
clothes.  This  must  on  no  account  be  allowed. 
If  the  men  are  put  into  their  baths,  and  dressed 
immediately  after  in  warm,  dry  clothes,  they 
will  never  take  cold. 

These  above  points  are  the  vital  ones  in  the 
foot-ball  training  and  give  a  general  \iew  of  the 
course  to  be  pursued.  The  smaller  technicali- 
ties every  captain  must  discover  for  himself 

(  To  he  couliuHcd.) 




^-    —  -  - 

K  r  i  stnm^^^'^tKePo  1 1  y . 


By  Grack  F.  Coolidge 

k'as  the  good  ship  "  Polly,"  and 
,^^  she  sailed  the  wintry  sea, 

For  ships  must  sail  tho'  fierce  the  gale, 
and  a  jjrccious  freight  had  she ; 
'T  was  the  captain's  little  daughter  stood 

beside  her  father's  chair, 
Anil  illumed  the  dingy  cabin  with  the  sun- 
shine of  her  hair. 

With  a  yo-hcave-ho,  and  a  yo-heave-ho .' 

For  ships  must  sail 

Tho'  fierce  the  gale 
And  loud  the  tempests  blow. 

\nd  make  belie\e  the  stove-pipe  is  a  chim- 
ney— just  for  me  ?  " 

Loud  laughed  the  jovial  captain,  and  "  By  my 

faith,"  he  cried, 
If  he  should  come  we  '11  let  him  know  he  has 

a  friend  inside ! " 
And  many  a  rugged  sailor  cast  a  loving  glance 

that  night 

The  captain's  fingers  rested  on  the  pretty, 

curly  head. 
"  To-morrow   will    be  Christmas-day,"    the 

little  maiden  said ; 
"  Do  you  suppose  that  Santa  Claus  will  find 

us  on  the  sea, 


At  the  stove-pipe  where  a  lonely  little 
stockinE!  fluttered  white. 



IVi/ha  yo-heave-ho,  ami  ayo-Jicai'e-ho! 

For  ships  must  sail 

Tho' fierce  the  gale 
And  loud  the  tempests  blo7v. 

On  the  good  ship  "  Polly  "  the  Christmas 

sun  looked  down, 
And  on  a  smiling  Uttle  face  beneath  a 

golden  crown. 
No  happier  child  he  saw  that  day,  on 

sea  or  on  the  land, 
Than  the  captain's  litde  daughter  with 

her  treasures  in  her  hand. 

For  never  was  a  stocking  so  filled  with  curious 

things ! 
There  were  bracelets  made  of  pretty  shells, 

and  rosy  coral  strings  ; 
An  elephant  carved  deftly  from  a  bit  of  ivory 

A  fan,  an  alligator's  tooth,  and  a  little  bag  of 


Not  a  tar  aboard  the  "  Polly "  but  felt  the 

Christmas  cheer, 
For  the  captain's  little  daughter  was  to  every 

sailor  dear. 
They  heard  a  Christmas  carol  in  the  shrieking 

wintry  gust, 
For  a  little  child  had  touched  them  by  her 

simple,  loving  trust. 

With  a  yo-heave-ho,  and  a  yo-heave-ho! 

For  ships  must  sail 

Tho' fierce  the  gale 
And  loud  the  tempests  blotc. 


Bv  William  O.  Stoddard. 


THE    RUNAWAY.     **THE    WAGON    TILTED    FBARFUULV,    AND    THE    NIGH    WHEEL    WAS    IN    THE    AIR     FOR    A    MOMENT,     trNTIL 
jack's    WEIGHT    HELPED    BRING    IT    DOWN    AGAIN." 

Chapter  I. 

"  I  'm  going  to  the  city  !  " 

He  stood  in  the  wide  door  of  the  blacksmith- 
shop,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking 
down  the  street,  toward  the  rickety  old  bridge 
over  the  Cocahutchie.  He  was  a  sandy-haired, 
freckled-faced  boy,  and  if  he  was  really  only 
about  fifteen,  he  was  tall  for  his  age.  Across 
the  top  of  the  door,  over  his  head,  stretched 
a  cracked  and  faded  sign,  with  a  horseshoe 
painted  on  one  end  and  a  hammer  on  the  other, 
and  the  name  "John  Ogden,"  almost  faded  out, 
between  them. 

The  blacksmith-shop  wa,s  a  great,  ru.sty,  grimy 
clutter  of  work-benches,  vises,  tools,  iron  in  bars 
and  rods,  and  all  sorts  of  old  iron  scraps  and 
things  that  looked  as  if  they  needed  making  over. 

The  forge  was  in  the  middle,  on  one  side, 
and  near  it  was  hitched  a  horse,  pawing  the 
ground  with  a  hoof  that  bore  a  new  shoe.  On 
the  anvil  was  a  brilliant,  yellow-red  loop  of  iron, 
that  was  not  quite  yet  a  new  shoe,  and  it  was 
sending  out  bright  sparks  as  a  hammer  fell  upon 
it, — "  thud,  thud,  thud,"  and  a  clatter.  Over 
the  anvil  leaned  a  tall,  muscular,  dark-haired, 
grimy  man.  His  face  wore  a  disturbed  and 
anxious  look,  and  it  was  covered  with  charcoal 
dust.  There  was  altogether  too  much  charcoal 
along  the  high  bridge  of  his  Roman  nose  and 
over  his  jutting  eyebrows. 

The  boy  in  the  door  also  had  some  charcoal 
on  his  cheeks  and  forehead,  but  none  upon  his 
nose.  His  nose  was  not  precisely  like  the  black- 
smith's. It  was  high  and  Roman  half-way 
down,  but  just  there  was  a  little  dent,  and  the 




rest  of  the  nose  was  straight.  His  complexion, 
excepting  the  freckles  and  charcoal,  was  chiefly 
sunburn,  down  to  the  neckband  of  his  blue 
checked  shirt.  He  was  a  tough,  wiry-looking 
boy,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  smiling,  self-conii- 
dent  expression  in  his  blue-gray  eyes  and  around 
his  firm  mouth. 

"  I  'm  going  to  the  city!"  he  said,  again,  in  a 
low  but  positive  voice.  '•  I  '11  get  there,  some- 

Just  then  a  short,  thick-set  man  came  hurry- 
ing past  him,  into  the  shop.  He  was  probably 
the  whitest  man  going  into  that  or  any  other 
shop,  and  he  spoke  out,  at  once,  very  fast,  but 
with  a  voice  that  sounded  as  if  it  came  through 
a  bag  of  meal. 

"  Ogden,"  said  he,  "  got  him  shod  ?  If  you 
have,  I  '11  take  him.  What  do  you  say  about 
that  trade  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  any  more  room  than  there  is 
here,"  said  the  blacksmith,  "  and  I  don't  care 
to  move  my  shop." 

"  There  's  nigh  onto  two  acres,  mebbe  more, 
all  along  the  creek  from  below  the  mill  to  Dea- 
con Hawkins's  line,  below  the  bridge,"  wheezed 
the  mealy,  floury,  dusty  man,  rapidly.  "  I  '11 
get  two  hundred  for  it  some  day,  ground  or  no 
ground.     Best  place  for  a  shop." 

"  This  lot  suits  me,"  said  the  smith,  hammer- 
ing away.  "  'T  would  n't  pay  me  to  move, — not 
in  these  times." 

The  miller  had  more  to  say,  while  he  un- 
hitched his  horse,  but  he  led  him  out  without 
getting  any  more  favorable  reply  about  the 

"  Come  and  blow,  Jack,"  said  the  smith,  and 
the  boy  in  the  door  turned  promptly  to  take  the 
handle  of  the  bellows. 

The  little  heap  of  charcoal  and  coke  in  the 
forge  brightened  and  sent  up  fiery  tongues,  as 
the  great  leathern  lungs  wheezed  and  sighed, 
and  Jack  himself  began  to  puff. 

"  I  've  got  to  have  a  bigger  man  than  you 
are,  for  a  blower  and  striker,"  said  the  smith. 
"  He  's  coming  Monday  morning.  It  's  time 
you  were  doing  something,  Jack." 

"  Why,  father,"  said  Jack,  as  he  ceased  pulling 

on  the  bellows,  and  the  shoe  came  out  of  the 

fire,  "  I  've   been  doing  something  ever  since 

I  was  twelve.     Been  working  here  since  May, 

Vol.  XVII.— 29. 

and  lots  o'  times  before  that.  Learned  the 
trade,  too." 

"You  can  make  a  nail,  but  you  can't  make  a 
shoe,"  said  his  father,  as  he  sizzed  the  bit  of  bent 
iron  in  the  water-tub  and  then  threw  it  on  the 
ground.  "  Seven.  That 's  all  the  shoes  I  '11  make 
this  morning,  and  there  are  seven  of  you  at  home. 
Your  mother  can't  spare  Molly,  but  you  '11  have 
to  do  something.  It  is  Saturday,  and  you  can 
go  fishing,  after  dinner,  if  you  'd  like  to.  There 
's  nothin'  to  ketch  'round  here,  either.  Worst 
times  there  ever  were  in  Crofield." 

There  was  gloom  as  well  as  charcoal  on  the 
face  of  the  blacksmith,  but  Jack's  expression 
was  only  respectfully  serious  as  he  walked 
away,  without  speaking,  and  again  stood  in  the 
door  for  a  moment. 

"  I  could  catch  something  in  the  city.  I  know 
I  could,"  he  said,  to  himself  "  How  on  earth 
shall  I  get  there  ?  " 

The  bridge,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  sloping 
side-street  on  which  the  shop  stood,  was  long 
and  high.  It  was  made  to  fit  the  road  and  was 
a  number  of  sizes  too  large  for  the  stream  of 
water  rippling  under  it.  The  side-street  climbed 
about  twenty  rods  the  other  way  into  what  was 
evidently  the  Main  street  of  Crofield.  There 
was  a  tavern  on  one  corner,  and  across  the  street 
from  that  there  was  a  drug  store  and  in  it  was  the 
post-ofiice.  On  the  two  opposite  comers  were 
shops,  and  all  along  the  Main  street  were  all  sorts 
of  business  establishments,  sandwiched  in  among 
the  dwellings. 

It  was  not  yet  noon,  but  Crofield  had  a 
sleepy  look,  as  if  all  its  work  for  the  whole  week 
were  done.  Even  the  horses  of  the  farmers' 
teams,  hitched  in  front  of  the  stores,  looked 
sleepy.  Jack  Ogden  took  his  longest  look,  this 
time,  at  a  neat,  white-painted  frame-house  across 
the  way. 

"  Seems  to  me  there  is  n't  nearly  so  much 
room  in  it  as  there  used  to  be,"  he  said  to  him- 
self 'Tt  's  just  packed  and  crowded.  I  'm 
going ! " 

He  turned  and  walked  on  up  toward  Main 
street,  as  if  that  were  the  thing  he  could 
do  till  dinner  time.  Not  many  minutes  later, 
a  girl  plainly  but  neatly  dressed  came  slowly 
along  in  front  of  the  village  green,  away  up 
Main  street.     She  was  tall  and  slender,  and  her 




hair  and  eyes  were  as  dark  as  those  of  John 
Ogden,  the  blacksmith.  Her  nose  was  like 
his,  too,  except  that  it  was  finer  and  not  so 
high,  and  she  wore  very  much  the  same 
anxious,  discontented  look  upon  her  face. 
She  was  walking  slowly,  because  she  saw,  com- 
ing toward  her,  a  portly  lady,  with  hair  so  flaxy 
that  no  gray  would  show  in  it.  She  was  ele- 
gantly dressed.  She  stopped  and  smiled  and 
looked  very  condescending. 

"  Good-moming,  Mary  Ogden,"  she  said. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Ghdden,"  said  Mary, 
the  anxious  look  in  her  eyes  changing  to  a 
gleam  that  made  them  seem  very  wide  awake. 

"  It 's  a  fine  morning,  Mary  Ogden,  but  so 
very  warm.     Is  your  mother  well  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Mary. 

"And  is  your  aunt  well, —  and  your  father, 
and  all  the  children  ?  I  'm  so  glad  they  're  well. 
Elder  Holloway  's  to  be  here  to-morrow.  Hope 
you  '11  all  come.  I  shall  be  there  myself. 
You  've  had  my  class  a  number  of  times.  Much 
obliged  to  you.  I  '11  be  there  to-morrow.  You 
must  hear  the  Elder.  He  's  to  inspect  the  Sun- 

"  Your  class.  Miss  Glidden  ?  "  began  Mary ; 
and  her  face  suggested  that  somebody  was 
blowing  upon  a  kind  of  fire,  inside  her 
cheeks,  and  that  they  would  be  very  red  in 
a  minute. 

"  Yes ;  don't  fail  to  be  there  to-morrow,  Mary. 
The  choir  '11  be  full,  of  course.  I  shall  be  there 

"  I  hope  you  wUl,  Miss  Glidden  —  " 

The  portly  lady  saw  something  up  the  street, 
at  that  moment. 

"  Oh  my !  What  is  it  ?  Dear  me  !  It 's  com- 
ing !    Run  !   We  '11  all  be  killed  !    Oh  my !  " 

She  had  turned  quite  around,  while  she  was 
speaking,  and  was  once  more  looking  up  the 
street;  but  the  dark-haired  girl  had  neither 
flinched  nor  wavered.  She  had  only  sent  a 
curious,  inquiring  glance,  in  the  direction  of  the 
shouts  and  the  rattle  and  the  cloud  of  dust  that 
were  coming  swiftly  toward  them. 

"  A  runaway  team,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  No- 
body 's  in  the  wagon." 

"  Dear  me !  "  exclaimed  Miss  GUdden ;  but 
Mary  began  to  move  away,  looking  not  at  her 
but  at  the  runaway,  and  she  did  not  hear  the 

rest.  "  Mary  Ogden  's  too  uppish. —  Somebody 
'11  be  killed,  I  know  they  will! — She  's  got  to  be 
taken  down. —  There  they  come  ! —  Dressed  too 
well  for  a  blacksmith's  daughter.  Does  n't  know 
her  place. —  Oh  dear !     I  'm  so  frightened  !  " 

Perhaps  she  had  been  wise  in  getting  behind 
the  nearest  tree.  It  was  a  young  maple,  two 
inches  through,  lately  set  out,  but  it  might  have 
stopped  a  pair  of  very  small  horses.  Those  in  the 
road  were  large — almost  too  large  to  run  well. 
They  were  well-matched  grays,  and  they  came 
thundering  along  in  a  way  that  was  really  fine 
to  behold;  heads  down,  necks  arched,  nostrils 
wide,  reins  flying,  the  wagon  behind  them  bang- 
ing and  swerving — no  wonder  everybody  stood 
still  and,  except  Mary  Ogden,  shouted,  "  Stop 
'em ! "  One  young  fellow,  across  the  street, 
stood  still  only  until  the  runaways  were  all  but 
close  by  him.  Then  he  darted  out  into  the 
street,  not  ahead  of  them  but  behind  them.  No 
man  on  earth  could  have  stopped  those  horses 
by  standing  in  front  of  them.  They  could 
have  charged  through  a  regiment.  Their 
heavy,  furious  gallop  was  fast,  too,  and  the 
boy  who  was  now  following  them  must  have 
been  as  Ught  of  foot  as  a  young  deer. 

"  Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  Go  it.  Jack  !  Catch 
'em !  Bully  for  you !  "  arose  from  a  score  of 
people  along  the  sidewalk,  as  he  bounded 

"  It 's  Jack !  Oh  dear  me !  But  it  's  just  hke 
him  !  There  !  He  's  in !  "  exclaimed  Mary 
Ogden,  her  dark  eyes  dancing  proudly. 

"  Why,  it  's  that  good-for-nothing  brother 
of  Mary  Ogden.  He  's  the  blacksmith's  boy. 
I  'm  afraid  he  will  be  hurt,"  remarked  Miss 
Ghdden,  kindly  and  benevolently;  but  all  the 
rest  shouted  "  Hurrah  !  "  again. 

Fierce  was  the  strain  upon  the  young  runner, 
for  a  moment,  and  then  his  hands  were  on  the 
back-board  of  the  bouncing  wagon.  A  tug,  a 
spring,  a  swerve  of  the  wagon,  and  Jack  Ogden 
was  in  it,  and  in  a  second  more  the  loosely  fly- 
ing reins  were  in  his  hands. 

The  strong  arms  of  his  father,  were  they  t\vice 
as  strong,  could  not  at  once  have  pulled  in  those 
horses,  and  one  man  on  the  sidewalk  seemed 
to  be  entirely  correct,  when  he  said,  "  He  's  a 
plucky  little  fellow,  but  he  can't  do  a  thing,  now 
he  's  there." 

I  Soft.  I 



His  sister  was  trembling  all  over,  but  she  was 
repeating  :  "  He  did  it  splendidly  !  He  can  do 
anything !  " 

Jack,  in  the  wagon,  was  thinking  only  :  "  I 
know  'em.  They  're  old  Hammond's  team. 
They  '11  try  to  go  home  to  the  mill.  They  '11 
smash  everything,  if  I  don't  look  out!" 

It  is  something,  even  to  a  greatly  frightened 
horse,  to  feel  a  hand  on  the  rein.  The  team  in- 
tended to  turn  out  of  Main  street,  at  the  comer, 
and  they  made  the  turn,  but  they  did  not  crash 
the  wagon  to  pieces  against  the  comer  post, 
because  of  the  desperate  guiding  that  was  done 
by  Jack.  The  wagon  swung  around  without 
upsetting.  It  tilted  fearfully,  and  the  nigh 
wheel  was  in  the  air  for  a  moment,  until  Jack's 
weight  helped  bring  it  down  again.  There  was  a 
short  sharp  scream  across  the  street,  when  the 
wagon  swung  and  the  wheel  went  up. 

Down  the  slope  toward  the  bridge  thundered 
the  galloping  team,  and  the  blacksmith  ran  out 
of  his  shop  to  see  it  pass. 

"  Turn  them  into  the  creek,  Jack !  "  he  shouted, 
but  there  was  no  time  for  any  answer. 

"  They  'd  smash  through  the  bridge,"  thought 
Jack.     "  I  know  what  I  'm  about." 

There  were  wheel-marks  down  from  the 
street,  at  the  left  of  the  bridge,  where  many  a 
team  had  descended  to  drink  the  water  of  the 
Cocahutchie,  but  it  required  all  Jack's  strength 
on  one  rein  to  make  his  runaways  take  that 
direction.  They  had  thought  of  going  toward 
the  mill,  but  they  knew  the  watering-place. 

Not  many  rods  below  the  bridge  stood  a 
clump  of  half  a  dozen  gigantic  trees,  remnants 
of  the  old  forest  which  had  been  replaced  by 
the  streets  of  Crofield  and  the  farms  around  it. 
Jack's  pull  on  the  left  rein  was  obeyed  only  too 
well,  and  it  looked,  for  some  seconds,  as  if  the 
plunging  beasts  were  about  to  wind  up  their 
maddened  dash  by  a  wreck  among  those  gnarled 
trunks  and  projecting  roots.  Jack  drew  his 
breath  hard,  and  there  was  almost  a  chill  at  his 
young  heart,  but  he  held  hard  and  said  nothing. 

Forward, — one  plunge  more, —  hard  on  the 
right  rein  — 

"  That  was  close!"  he  said.  "  If  we  did  n't 
go  right  between  the  big  maple  and  the  cherry  ! 
Now  I  've  got  'em  !  " 

Splash,  crash,  rattle !     Spattering  and  plung- 

ing, but  coohng  fast,  the  gray  team  galloped 
along  the  shallow  bed  of  the  Cocahutchie. 

"  I  wish  the  old  swimming-hole  was  deeper," 
said  Jack,  "but  the  water  's  very  low.  Whoa, 
boys !  Whoa,  there  !  Almost  up  to  the  hub  — 
over  the  hub  !     Whoa,  now  !  " 

And  the  gray  team  ceased  its  plunging  and 
stood  still  in  water  three  feet  deep. 

"  I  must  n't  let  'em  drink  too  much,"  said 
Jack;  "but  a  little  won't  hurt  'em." 

The  horses  were  trembling  all  over,  but  one 
after  the  other  they  put  their  noses  into  the 
water,  and  then  raised  their  heads  to  prick  their 
ears  back  and  forth  and  look  around. 

"  Don't  bring  'em  ashore  till  they  're  quiet, 
Jack,"  called  out  the  deep,  ringing  voice  of  his 
father,  from  the  bank. 

There  he  stood,  and  other  men  were  coming, 
on  the  run.  The  tall  blacksmith's  black  eyes 
were  flashing  with  pride  over  the  daring  feat  his 
son  had  performed. 

"  I  dare  n't  tell  him,  though,"  he  said  to 
himself  "  He  's  set  up  enough,  a'ready.  He 
thinks  he  can  do  'most  anything." 

"  Jack,"  wheezed  a  mealy  voice  at  his  side, 
"  that  's  my  team — " 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Jack.  "  They  're  all  right 
now.  Pretty  close  shave  through  the  trees, 
that  was!" 

"  I  owe  ye  fifty  dollars  for  a-savin'  them  and 
the  wagin,"  said  the  miller.  "It  's  wuth  it, 
and  I  '11  pay  it ;  but  I  've  got  to  owe  it  to  ye, 
jest  now.  Times  are  awful  hard  in  Crofield. 
If  I  'd  ha'  lost  them  bosses  and  that  wagin — " 

He  stopped  short,  as  if  he  could  not  exactly 
say  how  disastrous  it  would  have  been  for  him. 

There  was  a  running  fire  of  praise  and  of 
questions  poured  at  Jack,  by  the  gathering  knot 
of  people  on  the  shore,  and  it  was  several  min- 
utes before  his  father  spoke  again. 

"  They  're  cool,  now,"  he  said.  "  Turn  'em, 
Jack,  and  walk  'em  out  by  the  bridge,  and  up  to 
the  mill.     Then  come  home  to  dinner." 

Jack  pretended  not  to  see  quite  a  different 
kind  of  group  gathered  under  the  clump  of  tall 
trees.  Not  a  voice  had  come  to  him  from  that 
group  of  lookers-on,  and  yet  the  fact  that  they 
were  there  made  him  tingle  all  over. 

Two  large,  freckle-faced,  sandy-haired  women 
were  hugging  each  other,  and  wiping  their  eyes ; 




and  a  very  small  girl  was  tugging  at  their  dresses 
and  crying,  while  a  pair  of  girls  of  from  twelve 
to  fourteen,  close  by  them,  seemed  very  much 
inclined  to  dance.  Two  small  boys,  who  at  first 
belonged  to  the  party,  had  quickly  rolled  up 
their  trousers  and  waded  out  as  far  as  they 
could  into  the  Cocahutchie.  Just  in  front  of 
the  group,  under  the  trees,  stood  Mary  Ogden, 
straight  as  an  arrow,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  and 
her  cheeks  glowing  while  she  looked  silently 
at  the  boy  on  the  wagon  in  the  stream,  until  she 
saw  him  wheel  the  grays.  Even  then  she  did 
not  say  anything,  but  turned  and  walked  away. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  so  much  to  say  that  she 
felt  she  could  not  say  it. 

"  Aunt  Melinda !  Mother !  "  said  one  of  the 
girls,  "Jack  is  n't  hurt  a  mite.  They  'd  all 
ha'  been  drowned,  though,  if  there  was  water 

"  Hush,  Bessie,"  said  one  of  the  large  women, 
and  the  other  at  once  echoed,  "  Hush,  Bessie." 

They  were  very  nearly  alike,  these  women, 
and  they  both  had  long,  straight  noses,  such  as 
Jack's  would  have  been,  if  half-way  down  it 
had  not  been  Roman,  like  his  father's. 

"  Mary  Ann,"  said  the  first  woman,  "  we 
must  n't  say  too  much  to  him  about  it.  He 
can  only  just  be  held  in,  now." 

"  Hush,  Melinda,"  said  Jack's  mother.  "  I 
thought  1  'd  seen  the  last  of  him  when  the 
gray  critters  came  a-powderin'  down  the  road 
past  the  house"  —  and  then  she  wiped  her  eyes 
again,  and  so  did  Aunt  Melinda,  and  they  both 
stooped  down  at  the  same  moment,  saying, 
"Jack  's  safe,  Sally,"  and  picked  up  the  small 
girl,  who  was  crying,  and  kissed  her. 

The  gray  team  was  surrendered  to  its  owner 
as  soon  as  it  reached  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the 
bridge,  and  again  Jack  was  loudly  praised  by  the 
miller.  The  rest  of  the  Ogden  family  seemed  to 
be  disposed  to  keep  away,  but  the  tall  black- 
smith himself  was  there. 

"  Jack,"  said  he,  as  they  turned  away  home- 
ward, "  you  can  go  fishing  this  afternoon,  just 
as  I  said.  I  was  thinking  of  your  doing  some- 
tliing  else  aftervvard,  but  you  've  done  about 
enough  for  one  day." 

He  had  more  to  say,  concerning  what  would 
have  happened  to  the  miller's  horses,  and  the 
number  of  pieces  the  wagon  would  have  been 

knocked  into,  but  for  the  manner  in  which  the 
whole  team  had  been  saved. 

When  they  reached  the  house  the  front  door 
was  open,  but  nobody  was  to  be  seen.  Bob 
and  Jim,  the  two  small  boys,  had  not  yet 
returned  from  seeing  the  gray  span  taken  to 
tlie  mill,  and  the  women  and  girls  had  gone 
through  to  the  kitchen. 

"Jack,"  said  his  father,  as  they  went  in,  "old 
Hammond  '11  owe  you  that  fifty  dollars  long 
enough.     He  never  really  pays  anything." 

"  Course  he  does  n't — not  if  he  can  help  it," 
said  Jack.  "  I  worked  for  him  three  months, 
and  you  know  we  had  to  take  it  out  in  feed. 
I  learned  the  mill  trade,  though,  and  that 
was  something." 

Just  then  he  was  suddenly  embarrassed.  Mrs. 
Ogden  had  gone  through  the  house  and  out  at 
the  back  door,  and  Aunt  Melinda  had  followed 
her,  and  so  had  the  girls.  Molly  had  suddenly 
gone  upstairs  to  her  own  room.  Aunt  Melinda 
had  taken  everything  off  the  kitchen  stove  and 
put  everything  back  again,  and  here  now  was 
Mrs.  Ogden  back  again,  hugging  her  son. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  "don't  you  ever,  ever,  do 
such  a  thing  again.  You  might  ha'  been  knocked 
into  slivers ! " 

Molly  had  gone  up  the  back  stairs  only  to 
come  down  the  front  way,  and  she  was  now  a 
httle  behind  them. 

"  Mother !  "  she  e.\claimed,  as  if  her  pent-up 
admiration  for  her  brother  was  exploding, 
"  you  ought  to  have  seen  him  jump  in,  and 
you  ought  to  have  seen  that  wagon  go  around 
the  comer ! " 

"Jack,"  broke  in  the  half-choked  voice  of 
.\unt  Melinda  from  the  kitchen  doorway, 
"  come  and  eat  something.  I  felt  as  if  I  knew 
you  were  killed,  sure.  If  you  have  n't  earned 
your  dinner,  nobody  has." 

"Why,  I  know  how  to  drive,"  said  Jack. 
"  I  was  n't  afraid  of  'em  after  I  got  hold  of  the 

He  seemed  even  in  a  hurry  to  get  through  his 
dinner,  and  some  minutes  later  he  was  out  in  the 
garden,  digging  for  bait.  The  rest  of  the  family 
remained  at  the  table  longer  than  usual,  espe- 
cially Bob  and  Jim ;  but,  for  some  reason  known 
to  herself,  Marj-  did  not  say  a  word  about  her 
meeting  with  Miss  Glidden.  Perhaps  the  miller's 




gray  team  had  run  away  with  all  her  interest  in 
that,  but  she  did  not  even  tell  how  carefully 
Miss  Glidden  had  inquired  after  the  family. 

'•  There  goes  Jack,"  she  said,  at  last,  and  they 
all  turned  to  look. 

He  did  not  say  anything  as  he  passed  the 
kitchen  door,  but  he  had  his  long  cane  fishing- 
pole  over  his  shoulder.  It  had  a  Une  wound 
around  it,  ready  for  use.  He  went  out  of  the 
gate  and  down  the  road  toward  the  bridge,  and 
gave  only  a  glance  across  at  the  shop. 

"  I  did  n't  get  many  worms,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, at  the  bridge,  "  but  I  can  dig  some  more, 
if  the  fish  bite.  Sometimes  they  do,  and  some- 
times they  don't." 

Over  the  bridge  he  went,  and  up  a  wagon 
track  on  the  opposite  bank,  but  he  paused  for 
one  moment,  in  the  ver)'  middle  of  the  bridge, 
to  look  upstream. 

"  There  's  just  enough  water  to  run  the  mill," 
he  said.  "  There  is  n't  any  coming  over  the 
dam.  The  pond  's  even  full,  though,  and  it 
may  be  a  good  day  for  fish. —  I  wish  I  was  in 
the  city ! " 

Chapter  II. 

LL  Saturday  afternoon  was 
before  Jack  Ogden, 
when  he  came  out 
at  the  water's  edge, 
near  the  dam,  across 
from  the  mill.  That 
was  there,  big 
and  red  and 
and  the  dam  was 
there;  and  above 
them  was  the 
mill  -  pond, 
spreading  out 
over  a  number 
of  acres,  and  ornamented  with  stumps,  old 
logs,  pond-lilies,  and  weeds.  It  was  a  fairly 
good  pond,  the  best  that  Cocahutchie  Creek 
could  do  for  Crofield,  but  Jack's  face  fell  a  little 
as  he  looked  at  it. 

"  There  are  more  fellows  than  fish  here,"  he 
said  to  himself,  with  an  air  of  disgust. 

There  was  a  boy  at  the  end  of  the  dam  near 
Irim,  and  a  boy  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  two  boys 

at  the  flume,  near  the  mill.  There  were  tliree 
punts  out  on  the  water,  and  one  of  them  had 
in  it  a  man  and  two  boys,  while  the  second  boat 
held  but  one  man,  and  the  third  contained  four. 
A  big  stump  near  the  north  shore  supported  a 
boy,  and  the  old  snag  jutting  out  from  the  south 
shore  held  a  boy  and  a  man. 

There  they  all  were,  sitting  perfectly  still, 
until,  one  after  another,  each  rod  and  line  came 
up  to  have  its  hook  and  bait  examined,  to  see 
whether  or  not  there  had  really  been  a  bite. 

"  I  'm  fairly  crowded  out,"  remarked  Jack. 
"  Those  fellows  have  all  the  good  places.  I  '11 
have  to  go  somewhere  else ;  where  '11  I  go  ?  " 

He  studied  that  problem  for  a  full  minute, 
while  every  fisherman  there  turned  to  look  at 
him  and  then  turned  back  to  watch  his  line. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  tr)'  down  stream,"  said  Jack. 
"  Nobody  ever  caught  anything  down  there,  and 
nobody  ever  goes  there,  but  I  s'pose  I  might  as 
well  try  it,  just  for  once." 

He  turned  away  along  the  track  over  which 
he  had  come.  He  did  not  pause  at  the  road 
and  bridge,  but  went  on  down  the  further  bank 
of  the  Cocahutchie.  It  was  a  pretty  stream 
of  water,  and  it  spread  out  wide  and  shallow, 
and  rippled  merrily  among  stones  and  boulders 
and  clumps  of  \\-illow  and  alder  for  nearly 
half  a  mile.  Gradually,  then,  it  grew  narrower, 
quieter,  deeper,  and  wore  a  sleepy  look  which 
made  it  seem  more  in  keeping  with  quiet  old 

'•  The  hay  's  about  ready  to  cut,"  said  Jack, 
as  he  plodded  along  the  path,  near  the  water's 
edge,  through  a  thriving  meadow  of  clover 
and  timothy.  "There  's  always  plenty  of  work 
in  haying  time.  Hullo!  What  grasshoppers! 

As  he  made  the  last  exclamation,  he  clapped 
his  hand  upon  his  trousers-pocket. 

"  If  I  did  n't  forget  to  go  in  and  get  my 
sinker !  Never  did  such  a  thing  before  in  all  my 
life.  What  's  the  use  of  trying  to  fish  without  a 
sinker  ?  " 

The  luck  seemed  to  be  going  directly  against 
him.  Even  the  Cocahutchie,  at  his  left,  had 
dwindled  to  a  mere  crack  between  bushes  and 
high  grass,  as  if  to  show  that  it  had  no  room  to 
let  for  fish  to  live  in  —  that  is,  for  fish  accus- 
tomed to  having  plenty  of  room,  such  as  they 


could  find  when  living  in  a  mill-pond,  lined 
around  the  edges  with  boys  and  fish-poles. 

"  That  's  a  whopper ! "  suddenly  exclaimed 
Jack,  with  a  quick  snatch  at  something  that 
alighted  upon  his  left  arm.  "  I  've  caught  him ! 
Grasshoppers  are  the  best  kind  of  bait,  too.  1  '11 
try  him  on,  sinker  or  no  sinker.  Hope  there  are 
some  fish,  down  here." 

The  line  he  unwound  from  his  rod  was  some- 
what coarse,  but  it  was  strong,  and  so  was  his 
hook,  as  if  the  fishing  around  Crofield  called  for 
stout  tackle  as  well  as  for  a  large  number  of 
sportsmen.  The  big,  long-limbed,  green-coated 
jumper  was  placed  in  position  on  the  hook,  and 
then,  with  several  more  grumbhng  regrets  over 
the  absence  of  any  sinker.  Jack  searched  along 
the  bank  for  a  place  whence  he  could  throw  his 
bait  into  the  water. 

"  This  '11  do,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  the  breeze 
helped  him  to  swing  out  his  Ime  until  the  grass- 
hopper at  the  end  of  it  dropped  lightly  and 
naturally  into  a  dark  little  eddy,  almost  across 
that  narrow  ribbon  of  the  Cocahutchie. 

Splash, —  tug, —  splash  again, — 

"Jingo!  What's  that?  1  declare — if  he  is  n't 
pulling!  He  '11  break  the  line, —  no,  he  won't. 
See  that  pole  bend !  Steady, —  here  he  comes. 
Hurrah !  " 

Out  he  came,  indeed,  for  the  rude,  strong 
tackle  held,  even  against  the  game  struggling 
of  that  vigorous  trout.  There  he  lay  now,  on 
the  grass,  with  Jack  Ogden  bending  over  him 
in  a  fever  of  exultation  and  amazement. 

"  I  never  could  have  caught  him  with  a  worm 
and  a  sinker,"  he  said,  aloud.  "  This  is  the  way 
to  catch  'em.  Is  n't  he  a  big  fellow !  I  '11  try 
some  more  grasshoppers." 

There  was  not  likely  to  be  another  two-pound 
brook-trout  very  near  the  hole  out  of  which  that 
one  had  been  pulled.  There  would  not  have 
been  any  at  all,  perhaps,  but  for  the  prevail- 
ing superstition  that  there  were  no  fish  there. 
Everybody  knew  that  there  were  bullheads,  suck- 
ers, perch,  and  "  pumpkin-seeds,"  in  the  mill- 
pond,  and  eels,  with  now  and  then  a  pickerel, 
but  the  trout  were  a  profound  secret.  It  was 
easy  to  catch  another  big  grasshopper,  but  the 
young  sportsman  knew  very  well  that  he  knew 
nothing  at  all  of  that  kind  of  fishing.  He  had 
made  his  first  cast   perfectly,  because  it  was 


about  the  only  way  in  which  it  could  have  been 
made,  and  now  he  was  so  very  nervous  and  ex- 
cited and  cautious  that  he  did  very  well  again, 
aided  as  before  by  the  breeze.  Not  in  the  same 
place,  but  at  a  little  distance  down,  and  close  to 
where  Jack  captured  his  second  bait,  there  was 
a  crook  in  the  Cocahutchie,  with  a  steep,  over- 
hanging, bushy  bank.  Into  the  glassy  shadow 
under  that  bank  the  sinkerless  line  carried  and 
dropped  its  h'ttle  green  prisoner,  and  there  was 
a  hungry  fellow  in  there,  waiting  for  foohsh  grass- 
hoppers in  the  meadow  to  spring  too  far  and 
come  down  upon  the  water  instead  of  upon  the 
grass.  As  the  grasshopper  alighted  on  the  water, 
there  was  a  rush,  a  plunge,  a  strong  hard  pull, 
and  then  Jack  Ogden  said  to  him.self : 

"  I  've  heard  how  they  do  it.  They  wait  and 
tire  'em  out.  I  won't  be  in  too  much  of  a  hurry. 
He  '11  get  away  if  I  am." 

That  is  probably  what  the  fish  would  have 
done,  for  he  was  a  fish  with  what  army  men 
call  "tactics."  He  was  able  to  pull  very  hard, 
and  he  was  also  wise  enough  to  rush  in  under 
the  bank  and  to  sulkily  stay  there. 

"  Feels  as  if  I  'd  hooked  a  snag,"  said  Jack. 
"  Maybe  I  've  lost  the  fish  and  he  's  hitched  me 
into  a  'cod-lamper'  eel  of  some  kind.  Steady, — 
no,  I  must  n't  pull  harder  than  the  fish." 

He  was  breathless,  but  not  with  any  exertion 
that  he  was  making.  His  hat  fell  oft'  upon  the 
grass,  as  he  leaned  forward  through  the  alder 
bushes,  and  his  sandy  hair  was  tangled,  for  a 
moment,  in  some  stubby  twigs.  He  loosened 
his  head,  snll  holding  firmly  his  bent  and  strain- 
ing rod.  One  step  farther,  a  slip  of  his  left  foot, 
an  unsuccessful  grasp  at  a  bush,  and  then  Jack 
went  over  and  down  into  a  pool  deeper  than  he 
had  thought  the  Cocahutchie  afforded  so  near 

There  was  a  very  fine  splash,  as  the  grass- 
hopper fly-fisherman  went  under,  and  there  was 
a  coughing  and  spluttering  a  moment  afterward, 
when  his  eager,  excited,  anxious  face  came  up 
again.  He  could  swim  extremely  well,  and  he 
was  not  thinking  of  his  ducking, —  only  of  his 

"  I  hope  I  have  n't  lost  him !  "  he  exclaimed, 
as  he  tried  to  pull  upon  the  line. 

It  did  not  tug  at  all,  just  then,  for  the  fish 
on  the  hook  had  been  rudely  startled  out  firom 



under  the  bank  and  was  on  his  way  up  the 
Cocahutchie,  with  the  hook  in  his  mouth. 

"  There  he  is  !  I  've  got  him  yet !  Glad  I 
can  swim  — "  cried  Jack;  and  it  did  seem  as 
if  he  and  this  fish  were  very  well  matched, 
except  that  Jack  had  to  give  one  of  his  hands 
to  the  rod  while  his  captive  could  use  every  fin. 

Down-stream  floated  Jack,  passing  the  rod 
back  through  his  hands  until  he  could  grasp  the 
line,  and  all  the  while  the  fish  was  darting  madly 
about  to  get  away. 

"  There,  I  've  touched  bottom.  Now  for 
him !  Here  he  comes.  I  '11  draw  him  ashore 
easy, —  that  's  it !  Hurrah  ! —  biggest  fish  ever 
was  caught  in  the  Cocahutchie  !  " 

That  might  or  might  not  be  so,  but  Jack 
Ogden  had  a  three-pound  trout,  flopping  angrily 
upon  the  grass  at  his  feet. 

"  I  know  how  to  do  it  now,"  he  almost  shouted. 
"  I  can  catch  'em  !  I  won't  let  anybody  else 
know  how  it  's  done,  either." 

He  had  learned  something,  no  doubt,  but  he 
had  not  learned  how  to  make  a  large  fish  out 
of  a  small  one.     All  the  rest  of  that  afternoon 

(To  be  con. 

he  caught  grasshoppers  and  cast  them  daintily 
into  what  seemed  to  be  good  places,  but  he  did 
not  have  another  occasion  to  tumble  in.  When 
at  last  he  was  tired  out  and  decided  to  go  home, 
he  had  a  dozen  more  of  trout,  not  one  of  them 
weighing  over  six  ounces,  with  a  pair  of  very 
good  yellow  perch,  one  very  large  perch,  a 
sucker,  and  three  bullheads,  that  bit  when  his 
bait  happened  to  sink  to  the  bottom  without 
any  lead  to  help  it.  Take  it  all  in  all,  it  was  a 
great  string  of  fish,  to  be  caught  in  a  Saturday 
afternoon,  when  all  that  the  Crofield  sportsmen 
around  the  mill-pond  could  show  was  six  bull- 
heads, a  dozen  small  perch,  a  lot  of  "  pumpkin- 
seeds  "  not  much  larger  than  dollars,  five  small 
eels,  and  a  very  vicious  snapping-turtle. 

Jack  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at 
the  results  of  his  experiment  in  fly-fishing.  He 
felt,  really,  as  if  he  could  not  more  than  half 
believe  it. 

"  Fishing  does  n't  pay,"  he  said.  "  It  does  n't 
pay  cash,  anyway.  There  is  n't  anything  around 
Crofield  that  does  pay.  Well,  it  must  be  time 
for  me  to  go  home." 

iinued. ) 



Bv  J.  O.  Davidson. 

To  the  mariner  inward  bound  from  a  long 
voyage,  few  sights  are  more  welcome  than  the 
first  view  of  the  pilot-boat.  Whether  she  be 
met  in  fair  summer  weather,  or  in  a  winter's  snow- 
storm or  bliz/.ard ;  within  sight  of  land,  or  far  out 
on  the  restless  ocean,  she  is  a  welcome,  a  sign  of 
rest,  of  good  fellowship,  and  good  cheer.  To 
the  passenger  in  pursuit  of  business,  pleasure, 
or  health,  she  is  a  landmark  or  mile-post,  so  to 
speak,  on  his  way.  To  the  tired  sailor  she  prom- 
ises rest  from  heavy  labors,  an  easy  berth,  and 
pay-day.  To  the  captain  she  signifies  relief 
from  anxious  duty,  for,  with  the  good  pilot  on 
board,  he  is  relieved  from  further  guidance,  and 
is  practically  at  his  voyage's  end  —  moored  to  his 
dock,  and  shaking  hands  with  the  shi|)'s  owners 
over  the  safe  ending  of  a  happy  voyage. 

The  New  York  and  New  Jersey  pilots  are  a 
set  of  hardy  and  reliable  men,  inured  to  hard- 
ship and  responsibility,  for  tlieir  training  is  a 
long  and  severe  one.  Many  of  them  are  brought 
up  on  or  near  the  harbors  in  which  they  after- 
ward ply  their  trade,  and  the  knowledge  acquired 
as  boys,  while  cruising  in  familiar  home  waters, 
stands  them  in  good  stead  in  after  years. 

The  first  pilots  of  New  York  harbor  were 
stationed  at  Sandy  Hook,  and  \-isited  incoming 
vessels  in  whale-boats ;  and  many  a  stately  Brit- 
ish frigate  or  colonial  trader  was  forced  to  wait 
anxiously  outside  the  bar,  rolling  and  tossing  in 
the  sea-way,  or  tacking  hither  and  yon,  waiting 
for  a  glimpse  of  that  tiny  speck  where  flashing 
oars  told  of  the  coming  pilot.  It  is  in  this  way 
many  vessels  are  still  met,  off  some  of  our 
smaller  harbors,  and  at  the  Port  Eads  Jetties 
(those  wonderful  improvements  of  na\ngation  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi  River)  this  practice 
also  remains.  There  the  waters  of  the  great  river 
pouring  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  make  a  turbu- 
lent swell  with  foam-crested  billows  that  roll  the 
stoutest  ship's  gunwale  under,  even  in  calm 
weather;  yet  the  little  whale-boats,  swift  and 
buoyant,  dash  out  bravely  in  a  race  for  the  sail 

on  the  distant  horizon,  for  there  are  two  pilot- 
stations  at  the  Jetties,  and  it  is  "  first  come  first 
engaged."  There  are  plenty  of  tugs  and  small 
steamers  there  also,  but  the  whale-boat  is  still 
used  as  easiest  to  handle  and  to  embark  from. 

On  our  own  northern  coasts,  the  long  icy 
storms  in  winter,  demand  a  strong